


freewinds

by weefaol



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jensen, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Falling In Love, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military, Power Dynamics, Religious Cults, Secret Relationship, Suicide Attempt, Top Jared, more tags in notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-26 11:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 53,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15000338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weefaol/pseuds/weefaol
Summary: It's 1993 in Los Angeles, California and Jared Padalecki is going to save the world. After spending his teen years in the Church of Scientology, he gets recruited for the elite Sea Organization, the paramilitary clergy tasked with "clearing the planet" of Ritalin and homosexuality.Jared's unwavering commitment to the Church, however, is thrown into question aboard the training shipMV Freewinds, when he starts to fall for one of the Sea Org's Action Chiefs: the mature and enigmatic Commander Jensen Ackles.Amidst a crackdown on "Suppressive Persons," will the Commander and the Cadet be able to keep their illicit relationship a secret? Or will the Church stop at nothing to silence them?Written for the 2018 Supernatural and J2 Big Bang.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone on [tumblr](http://weefaol.tumblr.com/) who encouraged me to finish this story. Your _keep goings_ and _you can do its_ were invaluable.  <3
> 
> Thank you to [winchestergirl](https://winchestergirl.livejournal.com/), who took a chance on my prompt (it was _the last_ one to be picked). You can view her awesome artwork [here](https://winchestergirl.livejournal.com/289350.html). Thank you to Wendy, for organizing and expertly wrangling the [Supernatural and J2 Big Bang](https://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, rife with inaccuracy. I have no first hand experience inside the Church of Scientology. I am, however, fluent in cult. (So don't squirrel-bust me, fuckers.)
> 
> More tags: Scientology, Kissing, Romance, Sexual Tension, Gaslighting, Psychological Manipulation, Commander Jensen, Cadet Jared, Implied Forced Abortion, Bullying, Physical Abuse, Mention of Sexual Abuse of Children, Implied Torture, Imprisonment, Age Difference (Jared is 18, Jensen is 30).
> 
> Rejected tagline: Going clear has never felt so dirty.

_March, 1994.  
Los Angeles, California._

Two chairs. A table. And upon it, sits the e-Meter. The cans and the shield.

It’s truth-telling time. Purge and evisceration.

Trial by gaslight.

Jared sits down. His eyes flicker up to the blinking red light in the corner. Knows he’s on the record. The auditor comes in, his back to the door. No exit.

_The way out is the way through._

The man sits down opposite Jared, tinkers with the meter. Shuffles his papers behind the shield. Nods curtly. “Okay, Jared. Pick up the cans.”

Jared’s fingers tremble as he touches smooth metal, squeezes them gently in his hands until the cool metal warms up.

“Take a deep breath. Hold it for a moment and let it out through your mouth.”

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Heartbeat’s a mile a minute. The needle floats gently along the e-Meter. VGIs and reactive minds.

“Is there any reason not to have a session?”

Jared blinks. Blood thumps in his ears. “No.”

Without further pause, the auditor launches into questioning, a hostile tone pressing just under his tongue. “Do you have a secret you’re afraid I’ll find out?”

At this moment, Jared knows just how screwed he is. How vulnerable. That there’s no way in hell they’re gonna let him get off like this. He’s on the hook for a billion years.

“No,” says Jared, lip quivering.

The auditor watches the e-Meter dial like a hawk, scrawling private pen-scratches on a notepad. He frowns, fixes an ominous glare on Jared’s twitching eyes and sneers, “Jared, what are you most afraid of?”

Jared sucks in a sharp breath.

Blunt force trauma.


	2. The Invitation

_March, 1993.  
La-La Land, The Golden State._

“No photos. And I’ll need your bag for safekeeping.”

The family of four exchanges looks and then acquiesces, unstrapping their backpacks, giving over their souvenir bags, unclipping their fanny packs.

“You can keep that one, m’am,” says Jared Padalecki, winking shyly at the midwestern wife, who’s definitely blushing and _definitely_ wearing a pink hair scrunchie. He draws a look from the husband, who notices how his wife is batting her mascara-clumped eyelashes at the tall teenaged boy at the front desk of the _Psychiatry: An Industry of Death_ museum.

Jared suppresses a chuckle. To Mrs. Midwestern, Jared must look like one of those Hollywood boys. It’s not his fault he’d hit six foot four by sixteen and soaked up enough Vitamin D to tan his skin a perfect sun-kiss.

He tucks the family’s bags under the counter and smiles. Everyone loves a “free admission” sign on Sunset Boulevard, but it’s like catnip for unsuspecting tourists, who get sucked inside by sweet-talking teens like Jared. It helps that the museum lobby lights up like a Disneyland ride. Gets the kids excited.

“Welcome to _Psychiatry: An Industry of Death,”_ begins Jared, reciting with exuberance the spiel he knows by heart. “Here, you will learn the truth about psychiatry, an industry driven entirely by profit and kill-crazy antisocial enemies of the people. Did you know the death of George Washington, the Stockton schoolyard shooting, and the Holocaust were all caused by the evils of psychiatry?” Pause for reaction. “These are just some of the truths that will be revealed in our 100% factually-accurate exhibits. Please remember to sign the guestbook and have fun!”

The family, slightly stunned and blinking, turns and heads toward the first exhibit, “The Destruction of the Future,” which reveals how the prescribing of ADHD medication is turning America stupid. And shows how Scientologists are fighting against Big Pharma’s drug lobotomies, clearing one addled mind at a time. It’s Jared's favourite exhibit, other than the one about Hollywood overdoses.

Once the family’s around the corner and out of sight, Jared bends down and digs around their bags until he finds midwestern Mom and Pop’s wallets. He snaps Juicy Fruit gum while he thumbs at their driver’s licenses, jotting down their full names and DOBs. It’s standard procedure — statistics gathering for demographic research. Plus, Jared likes to see all the different licenses from fifty states and foreign countries. He’s still waiting to see a New Hampshire one.

“Is it suppos’ta be black as night in here?”

“ _Shit_ ,” mutters Jared. “Sorry!” He leans over the desk to press a big red button that activates a series of lights and psychedelic video clips. A booming voice echoes through the halls like a movie trailer:

 _“EVERYWHERE YOU LOOK, THERE IT IS.  
THINK PSYCHIATRY HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU?  
_**_THINK AGAIN._** ”

Jared pops his gum and goes back to his work, copying and recopying Social Security numbers, American Express codes, and Medicare claim IDs.

He finds it easy to focus amidst the noise and stimulation because Jared was first awakened, _really_ awakened, with a similar set of flashing lights — blues and purples and yellows, spotlights and video screens and thunderous applause, glittering gold letters spelled L-R-H and a booming voice that told him they were all saving the world.

See, Jared’s different now than he was when he was a kid. He used to be just like the others — the ones who pushed and shoved on playgrounds, the ones with Tamagotchi pets and a Walkman, who looked at the world through rose-coloured glasses and couldn’t see the filth and sin and disease.

The first time he’d heard the voice of L. Ron Hubbard, Jared realized he wasn’t like the other kids at all. He realized he was _special_. That he was on course. That he was going to do what others didn’t have the guts to even imagine.

Jared was going to clear the planet.

He was going to save the world.

“Think we’ve had enough,” says Mr. Midwestern (George S. Hunter from Lenora, Kansas; not an organ donor), retreating slowly out of the first exhibit, two traumatized kids and Mrs. Hunter in tow.

Jared furrows his brows. Most people make it through at least two exhibits before they bail. Before they run from the truth like cowards. But he puts on his best fake smile and hands them back their bags. “Would you like more information about the Church of Scientology?”

“No, thank you,” says George, herding his family towards the exit. “We’ve got Lord Jesus Christ. S’all we need.”

Jared resigns a nod. Most people don’t want to talk about Scientology. Sometimes he feels like he’s wasting his breath at this stupid museum. He inhales deeply and tries his best to like the folks anyway. “If you change your mind, I’ll be here.” He nods at the two kids. “Have a drug-free day.”

They leave like everyone else leaves, with their heads ducked low and their credit cards on file.

~~~

Four hours and fourteen ID cards later (he finally got to see the new Rhode Island drivers licenses, the one with the funny little bridge across the top), Jared locks up the _Industry of Death_ museum and meanders East down Sunset, looking over his shoulder every now and then to watch for the bus. He catches one outside of Ameoba Music, a record store at Sunset and Cahuenga, boards it and grabs an empty window seat near the middle. Watches as the billboards zoom by (Jonathan Taylor Thomas is _everywhere_ these days) and the neon night lights blur — past Pacific Cinerama, past the Hollywood Palladium, where Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch are playing — and feels the exhaustion hit him as he lets the drone of the bus lull him into a half-sleep.

He’s been at this for five years now. Fifteen daily hours of study, school, work. It’s a constant drive forward, a relentless dedication to learn Hubbard’s words, to work his way up the Bridge towards “clear,” one level at a time. It’s funny, he can’t seem to remember much from before he joined the Church — his mind is crammed full of the eight dynamics, of emotional tone scales, of ARC and KRC triangles — but he still remembers the first day he’d laid eyes on two men in dark blue uniforms, with gold buttons and multicoloured rank badges and white naval hats.

“Who are they?” he’d asked his mother, tugging on her sleeve like a child, eyes wide and heart-thumping.

“They’re in the Sea Org, the highest order in the Church, reserved for the most disciplined Scientologists. They dedicate their lives to clearing the planet.”

Jared couldn’t tear his gaze away. “Someday, I’m going to be just like them.”

Under insistence from his Scientology step-father, his mother had dropped Jared off at the Apollo Training Academy on Fountain Street in his white button-up and two dollar black trousers — humble wear for a humble organization. It was the Cadet Org, where keener kids got sent to save mankind, to live and breathe the works of L. Ron Hubbard, to prepare to clear the planet.

If Jared thinks about that day too much, his stomach hurts. Because it's a paradox. On one hand, he’d been overjoyed to be starting a new adventure. On the other, he couldn’t shake the strange look of fear in his mother’s eyes. It was a goodbye that’s haunted him over the years because it was the last day he ever saw her. She died of AIDS six months later. Refused treatment. Jared never knew. His step-father fled shortly after. No phone call, no forwarding address.

Jared’s been a child of the Church ever since.

At Cadet Org, he’d been crammed into a cinder block building with two hundred other thirteen-year-olds to learn the major tenets of Scientology. They were long days. Arduous days. Two hours of self-directed study (auditing and reading _Dianetics_ , the Bible of Scientology), followed by five hours of “Chinese School,” where he would learn how to reframe his reactive mind by sitting at desks and repeating everything the teacher said (LRH quotes and _Dianetics_ passages) exactly as he heard them:

“Boldness in itself is genius.”

“ _BOLDNESS IN ITSELF IS GENIUS_.”

“A Suppressive Person is someone who denies the rights of others.”

“ _A SUPPRESSIVE PERSON IS SOMEONE WHO DENIES THE RIGHTS OF OTHERS.”_

“You don’t have a soul. You are your own soul.”

“ _YOU DON’T HAVE A SOUL. YOU ARE YOUR OWN SOUL_.”

On the third day of lessons, he’d earned a “chit” for coughing during class and distracting the other students. Any written demerit was a serious mar on your record, so for the remainder of the hour, Jared had pressed his thumb to his windpipe to suppress the tickle caught there. Later, after the three cheers and salute to LRH’s portrait, he’d let loose in the hallway, whooping and hacking until he could breathe again. After that, he’d always kept honey drops in his pocket.

Math, literature, and geography fell by the wayside. Those subjects were supposed to be learned separately, on your own time, but Jared often found himself too exhausted at the end of the day and would fall asleep with the world atlas on his chest. One time, the page had pressed to his face and the ink had transferred, leaving him with a queer little print of the African State of Eritrea on his cheek.

When he’d turned sixteen, he started up at the _Industry of Death_ museum in the evenings, another way of devoting himself to the Church. He and a few of the most serious teens sought out these gigs to spread the word about LRH’s teachings: through telemarketing, by slinging lattes at Church-owned cafes, or as welcome guides at Scientology infotainment centres like Jared. They were long days that quickly turned longer. Thirty hours on, three hours off. He’d slept (when he could) in dorm rooms with other students. No parents around.

Those were the days.

The bus jostles him out of his stupor just in time for his stop, the corner of Sunset and Hillhurst, the dodgy end with all the burnt-out 7/11 signs and dead buildings. He makes his way across the five-way intersection (the one with the Scientology billboard towering overhead: “This is your invitation to FREEDOM.”) and passes the old Vista theatre, where he used to sneak into movies. He remembers seeing _The Colour of Money_ when he was thirteen and, after watching Tom Cruise charm his way through Scorsese money-shots, he dreamed of being a pool hustler. But that dream died after five days.

Now, at the ripe age of almost-eighteen, Jared’s been studying Scientology for five _years_. He’s since moved out of the cinder-block dorms and into a crowded two-bedroom apartment with four other Apollo seniors, a shitty little place on North Hoover at the edge of Little Armenia, where the food is good but the streets are crazy. He drags his feet up the stairs to the second floor and pushes his way inside. Home at last.

“Jared, you gotta open yours!”

Eduardo, a charming Mexican kid he’d met when Jared first joined the Church, shouts to him from the kitchen table, a glint in his eye.

“Open what?” says Jared, dumping his bag and shoes at the door.

“Your _invitation_ ,” says Eduardo, bounding up out of his seat. He shoves an envelope into Jared’s hand.

Jared scans the gold foil writing, fingers trembling. He opens the envelope, careful not to rip it even a little bit. Pulls a gold-gilded card out and reads:

_To Jared Padalecki,_

_To mark the occasion of your graduation from the Apollo Training Academy, please accept our invitation to attend the annual celebration of L. Ron Hubbard’s birthday at 19h00 on the thirteenth of the third month. Formal wear is mandatory._

_We are over Jupiter’s moons and beyond that you’ve chosen an honourable life of serving the Church and spreading LRH’s good word to the furthest reaches of the galaxy._

_Daniel Killian_

Jared touches his fingertips to the signature and traces each loopy letter, pretending it was Killian himself who signed it. He doesn’t deserve to even walk the same earth as him, their fearless leader. Chairman of the Board. The man who saved Scientology, who took control of the helm when LRH left his body to explore other worlds.

But in three days time, they’ll be sharing the same air at Jared’s first ever official Scientology party.

Eduardo grins. “Dude, we _did_ it. Graduation.”

Jared’s piggy bank gets busted open that night. Tomorrow, before work, he’ll spend what’s left of his life savings at the Wholesale Custom Men’s Wear on Melrose Avenue.

$73.04. And a one-way ticket to freedom.


	3. The Future

In the Church of Scientology, March 13th is a Holy day. It’s L. Ron Hubbard’s birthday. And Jared’s sweltering in his cheap suit outside the biggest party in town.

It’s a punishing 94 degrees on the red carpet outside the Shrine Auditorium on West Jefferson Boulevard. It’d taken Jared and his housemates nearly an hour to get there on the city bus, choking back diesel fumes and smog, but he had hardly noticed. His knees had been too busy bouncing and his belly too full of butterflies at the prospect of where he was headed, what he was about to witness, that he was even _invited_.

Everyone who is anyone in the Church is here, shining in silver ballgowns and tuxedos, dressed to the nines with gold-gilded “S” triangle pins on their lapels. Jared wants one more than anything. They probably cost about six months worth of work.

“Should we get inside?” says Eduardo, nodding towards the door. “I’m sweating like crazy.”

They make their way up the stairs and into the lobby, past the smiling waiters carrying champagne flutes (Jared’s cheeks flush when he realizes he’s wearing the exact same suit as they are), and in through the giant double doors.

Jared’s jaw drops. He’s never seen anything so magnificent — six thousand seats, an impressive proscenium archway in Moorish Revival art deco, exquisite chandeliers twinkling like constellations. Makes you think you can reach up and touch the stars.

“ _Wow_ ,” whispers Jared, his eyes lighting up with silver glimmers and glistening gold.

An older woman hovering nearby leans in and offers a smile. “First time?”

“Yes,” he blinks, breathless, trying to take it all in. It overwhelms.

“You never forget your first time,” she hums, giving his thigh a squeeze.

Jared swallows. Tugs at his slippery polyester suit jacket, finger-fiddles at the buttons. She leads them up to their seats, slightly closer than the nosebleed section, but still far enough back for those opera glasses to be useful.

“Wait until you hear Killian speak,” she says as they sit. Her eyes widen, “It’ll change you.”

Jared’s got skin tingles and shivers. He can’t wait.

At two minutes to seven, the auditorium fills to the brim, everyone hurrying to their seats and settling in for the evening. Then, as the clock strikes the hour, the room plunges into pitch black. A heavy bass note reverberates through the theatre, making the place hum and vibrate with intense energy. A low voice booms,

“WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.”

A flash of white light, then blue, then gold. The letters L-R-H illuminate like flashes of lighting and the crowd goes wild. The music starts and Jared can’t do anything but stare with wide, awe-struck eyes as giant video screens burst with animated graphics and saluting Sea Org members. The voice of god narrates the video, revealing mind-blowing statistics and the incredible reach of Scientology: between the unveiling of two new CCHR exhibits, Book One booms, and the deployment of tens of thousands of VMs, the Church has reached nearly one-fifth of the entire planet in the past year alone.

Jared’s brimming with pride. They’re all full of it.

Then, everyone’s on their feet — applauding and whooping and hollering, big smiles on their faces — as Daniel Killian, the freaking Pope of Scientology, takes the stage. Jared stands, watching with awe as Killian struts out to the podium and smiles, his pearly white teeth gleaming from the stage. He’s like a Tom Cruise clone, charming and commanding and _in control_.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” his voice echoes like an arch-angel through thunderous applause. “Alright.”

It takes four minutes for the applause to die down and for people to take their seats again. Jared’s knees are shaking so hard he feels his bones rattle.

“Well, thank you very much,” says Killian, “and welcome to our annual celebration of LRH, replete with two thousand cascading balloons and a soon-to-be stirring chorus of ‘Happy Birthday.’ On this joyous night, we’ll also pay tribute to our initiative to spread LRH’s message to the four corners of this earth and set the stage for Phase Two of our War against government suppressors under the guise of the IRS.”

There’s a collective murmur at the mention of the enemy. Killian pauses, shifting his eyes around the room.

“Or, if you’d rather… we’re going to _stuff and mount_ another record year on the game-room wall, then _lock and load_ for the future!”

Suddenly a curtain drops, revealing a city bus sized portrait of LRH hanging at the side of the stage, illuminated and impressive like a great deity in the sky. Like Citizen Kane. The crowd screams in glee — whoops and hollers and stands in ovation. Jared joins in, feeling like he’s in a movie. This can’t be real.

“Now,” says Killian, when the crowd eventually quiets again, “it’s only fitting we begin with a tribute to the undying missionary work of LRH himself. And to do so, I present to you, the highest commanding officers of the Church of Scientology… your Sea Org Action Chiefs.”

The crowd stands and applauds again as Killian turns and beckons to the edge of the stage, where a square formation of dozens of uniformed Sea Org members march out onto the platform.

Jared’s heart nearly stops. He watches the Sea Org, marching in perfect unison, strong and tall and saluting as they pass by Killian and begin to fill the rest of the stage. They’re so majestic. So synchronized. He grabs his opera glasses to take a closer look, watching as each member marches in place under the giant LRH portrait and, in this moment, he realizes he’s never been more sure he’s on the right path.

And, then, everything changes.

Because Jared sees _him_.

Through his magnifying lens, a lone soldier catches his eye. He’s on the front line, falling into formation with the rest of them, but an obvious stand out nonetheless. Tall, strong, puffy lips and pageant eyes. Bewitching in service dress blues.

He’s _beautiful_.

“Who _is_ that?” says Jared, wide-eyed, at attention. He shoves the opera glasses into Eduardo’s hand.

The thrum of the applause fades and the room spins in slow-motion as the object of Jared’s affections breaks from the platoon and marches back across the stage, greeting Killian at the podium with a stomp and salute. The crowd roars.

“That’s Commander Ackles,” says Eduardo, after taking a look. “Action Chief and Executive Director of OSA. Killian’s right hand man.”

Jared blinks, taking the binoculars back and refocusing the lenses. Watches as Commander Ackles comes to a halt at the head of the Sea Org Action Chiefs.

“But he’s so _young._ ” Only ten (maybe fifteen) years their senior and he’s already climbed the ranks to the top of the Office of Special Affairs — the CIA of Scientology. Jared’s starstruck.

“He’s a specialist. Catches criminals,” says Eduardo, who always knows everything about everybody. “I hear he’s ruthless. He’s already expelled hundreds of SPs like a damn Scientology superhero.”

Jared gazes down at the stage, transfixed by the beautiful specimen at the edge of the platoon. Even from the balcony, he can see the brilliant glimmer of green eyes. Radiant. And Jared can’t tell whether he wants to _be_ him, or just plain _wants_ him.

Then, for a brief second, he's breathless and gasping, for he swears those green eyes are staring right at him, catching his honey-brown ones through binoculars. It’s so striking that Jared jumps and drops the glasses, which clatter to the floor.

“Dude, what the fuck?” hisses Eduardo, as Jared scrambles to pick them up.

“Sorry,” he hushes, blushing under the _shh_ sounds coming from the seats around him. When he sits up again and looks to the stage, the moment is gone. The Commander is refocused on staring straight ahead. Statuesque.

Jared makes a vow right then and there. He recommits and gives himself over, every waking moment, to the Church of Scientology. To the pursuit of bliss and ascension up the Bridge to Total Freedom. That the second he saw Ackles, he just knew — he was born for this. To save the planet. Side by side.

He spends the rest of the party floating high and hiding a stubborn stiffy, cheeks pink and body thrumming with an ache he’d never known until now.

Later, he spills over on his bedsheets in the dead of night, visions of jade eyes dancing in his dreams.


	4. The Bridge to Total Freedom

When Jared had first arrived in Los Angeles, he used to hang out under the Sixth Street Viaduct. He and Eduardo would sneak out and meet under the bridge, the celluloid stomping ground of Repo Man and the Terminator. They’d sit on the banks of Thunder Road, retracing James Dean graffiti and listening to the echoes of cars above, feeling iconic, like they were sitting on the hallowed ground of their favourite movie car chases.

But Jared’s never seen a bridge like _this_.

The Bridge to Total Freedom.

He had first laid eyes on the Bridge to Total Freedom chart after he took his “Free Personality Test” on Hollywood Boulevard:

_HOW TO USE THIS CHART_

_This chart describes the route to human recovery and ultimate expansion of one’s ability and power as a spiritual being. Scientology philosophy brings an individual to higher states of being and ability. The chart could be conceived as a map of the expansion of life._

It was long and _confusing_ , with big red arrows, two columns (“Training” and “Processing”) with ascending Classes and Grades and something called “OT” levels. There were different paths and special Rundowns and multiple ways to unlock Super Powers of the mind — the ability to audit others, the freedom from cruel impulses, to make problems vanish. It was enough to make his head spin.

“The first step on the Bridge is _Dianetics_ ,” the street-tester had assured after noticing the baffled look on Jared’s face. “It’s the foundation of Scientology. Once you understand it, you’ll start moving up the Bridge and gaining spiritual betterment. In a few years, you’ll reach the state of CLEAR. Your mind will be free.”

“What about OT levels?” Jared had asked, staring at the fifteen grades at the top of the Bridge.

The tester’s eyes had widened. “Operating Thetan levels are spiritual states _above_ the state of Clear. OT is the highest state there is… total control and mastery over life, thought, matter, energy, space, and time.”

So Jared had gone home that night and, instead of reading _Hatchet_ like every other middle-schooler, he’d dug out his Encyclopedia Brown magnifying glass and read every single word on the unfolded Bridge map.

_In your study of this chart (and in any study) be sure you do not go past words you do not understand. Use a good dictionary. With this chart in front of you, you have already made the most important step of all—you have contacted truth and the route to freedom. Factually you’ve been traveling this universe a very long time without a map. Now you’ve got one._

For years, he’d spent his mornings reading _Dianetics_ and working up the preliminary “Not Classed” grades at Cadet Org, studying the techniques of Method One World Clearing, Control and Intention, and Expert Metering. It’s gruelling work. But it’s the only way to attain happiness. Hubbard-style. So he begins.

_Put this chart on your wall. When you’ve taken some of the steps, mark them DONE with the date. Find out your next step and mark it TO BE DONE and WHEN. Then do it. Keep track of your progress and keep moving._

_You’ll make it. All the way._

Now, after graduating from Apollo, Jared’s got five permanent marker “DONE”s on his chart. He’s left Cadet Org as an official Class 0, a Hubbard Recognized Scientologist. Only 60 more “DONE”s until he’s OT VIII, the highest level of spiritual enlightenment discovered thus far.

Sixty more steps to Total Freedom.

Today, May 5th, 1993, he’s starting adult classes at the Pacific Area Command (or “PAC”) Base, the high and mighty “Big Blue” megachurch on Fountain Avenue. The one that used to be a hospital. And you can tell — it’s halls have a clinical feel, a disorienting series of passageways that loop around the wings, with fluorescent lighting that gets more and more blue-tinged the higher you climb. Half the bulbs are burnt out on the eighth floor. Jared knows because he’s been assigned to change forty-six of them so far.

“Jared Padalecki,” says Lieutenant Diana Greyson, picking his name off a class list. “What can you tell me about the ARC triangle?”

“The A-R-C triangle represents three factors essential to handling life. Affinity is our emotional response, our degree of liking for someone or something. Reality is the level of agreement we reach, the solid objects in life. Communication is the exchange of ideas between two terminals, across time and space.”

The instructor nods and ticks a little checkbox next to Jared’s name. “Very good.”

It’s difficult at first, to pay attention in classes. There’s less structure here than at the Apollo Academy — you’re responsible for your own learning, coming in for your two hours of pre-study each day, following up with course leaders, getting your volunteer hours in. Paying your dues like any good Class 0, just steps above the lower Bridge rungs. But that’s okay. Jared can be patient. Because he’s here for the long haul. He’s meant for bigger things. Bigger than one lifetime things.

After two weeks of intensive coursework, Lieutenant Greyson announces their first official auditing sessions will take place in the next few days. Where they will hold the e-Meter cans and answer questions to help clear their minds of toxins. Jared’s anxious and giddy just thinking about it. How quickly he’s moving up in the world.

So he keeps toiling hour after hour, day after day, learning and re-learning _Dianetics_. He reads and re-reads every passage, checking every word in the dictionary and taking diligent notes. He’s in the classroom early, preparing for the day’s lecture. He gets to Fountain Avenue at sunrise and leaves at sunset. The California sun has scarcely touched his skin in weeks.

But he covers himself in wax and feathers and flies higher. Anything to get himself closer to the Gods — L. Ron Hubbard, Daniel Killian, Jensen Ackles.

There’s a little twist in his belly when he tongues over that name.

_Jen-sen. Ack-les._

Four syllables that form synapse constellations in his brain. Ones that sparkle and shine like the gold badges on Ackles’ Sea Org uniform. Ones that Jared wants to spit-shine with his thumbs. He’d do it. Anything to get Commander Ackles to notice him. To tell him that, someday, Jared will be right up there with him, saving the world.

It all starts on the Bridge.

He will ascend it. He will become free.


	5. The Audit

It’s a quarter past nine in the morning and Jared’s blinking exhaustion from his eyes. He’s been up for hours already, eager and anticipating. Today is his first official auditing session, where he’ll hold the e-Meter cans and be fed electrowaves that measure his thoughts; read his reactive mind. It cleanses you, they say, because the auditor’s job is to purge the bad thoughts. The unclean ones. Like jealousy and gluttony and lust.

Like the ones Jared sometimes has between the sheets. Ones that make his toes curl and his legs shake and his belly flutter. He supposes he’ll be glad to get rid of them. The _distractions_.

Fidget. Squirm. Bouncy teen-knees. He’s nervous as all hell. But the woman eyeing him from the reception desk shoots him a disparaging glare, so he steadies himself as best as he can. Pulls his knees together and holds them tight. He can’t afford to look weak. Not now.

An orange button on the reception desk lights up. She intones, “You can go in now.”

Jared swallows, wipes his sweaty palms on his khaki pants, and stands tall. Pushes the heavy metal door open and steps inside.

The room is dark and intimate, with dim light illuminating two chairs and a table. The e-Meter shines atop it, cold and metallic. The cans gleam and glisten. They look cold to touch. He steps closer, into the light.

“Jared Padalecki?”

A voice, low and impassive, startles him. He whips around towards the door and sees —

_Him. There he is_.

Commander Jensen Ackles. Dressed in his full Sea Org uniform, standing magnificently in front of him.

Jared can scarcely breathe, for there are gorgeous green eyes boring into him from behind reading glasses and _holy shit_ is he ever _tall_ — nearly Jared-height, which is saying something. And Jared does everything he can to keep control of his jaw as the Commander closes the door and advances towards him, bandy-legged and powerful, with perfectly cropped hair, clipped and curt like his mannerisms. Quite something to behold.

Jared, barely thinking clearly, remembers enough of his training to straighten up and perform a keen salute. “Sir.”

He hopes CDR Ackles didn’t notice his voice waver.

“Sit down, please,” he nods, his voice stern but not unkind. Like a Captain America type. Serious and superhuman.

Somehow, Jared finds his way to the seat without stumbling. And, as he sits, he’s flummoxed by this twist of fate. Because what are the odds Jared’s first audit would be by _him_? Surely he must be dreaming. Surely he doesn’t deserve this.

His mouth goes dry as the Commander takes up the seat across from him, the dim light illuminating the dusting of freckles across his nose. He’s really quite remarkable up close and in person.

“First audit?” asks Ackles, scribbling down notes in a file folder labelled J. PADALECKI.

“Yeah — yes, sir,” he replies, clearing his throat. He nods towards the file. “It, um, says that in there?”

“No, you’re just fidgety,” says the Commander, point blank.

“Oh,” Jared deflates, tenses his body to stop the shimmy-shakes. Curses himself for making a terrible first impression.

“Don’t be nervous,” says Ackles, looking up from his note taking with something like empathy. “I’ll walk you though it.”

“Okay,” says Jared, releasing the death grip he has on his thighs. He studies the curve of Ackles’ jaw as he skims through Jared’s file.

“Says here you graduated from Apollo. Top of the class.” He peers over the tops of his glasses and fixes a curious gaze on him.

“Yes, sir. That’s correct.”

CDR Ackles purses his lips in a _hmm_ shape, appraising Jared from across the table. He’s unreadable. But Jared’s radiating heat under his scrutiny. Without anything further, he shuffles his papers and places a fresh sheet on top.

“In this session, and during sessions only, you may call me by my first name: Jensen. During audits, I want us to proceed as equals. Do you understand?”

Jared nods. “Yes, sir — er, Jensen.”

Jensen nods approvingly and switches on the e-Meter. It makes a little _zing_ sound, a low hum and a whirr. Adjusts his glasses. “Okay, Jared, you may pick up the cans.”

He wipes his sweaty palms on his khakis before reaching out and, with trembling hands, touches the cool metal. Wraps his fingers around the slippery canisters and lifts them off the table, cupping and cradling each one, heavy in his hands like precious metal.

Ripples of current flood his body, electromagnetic pulses coursing through his veins. He’s pretty sure his nerves are making him imagine things. You aren’t meant to feel the current. He watches Jensen’s eyes dart back and forth, following the floating needle. Flickers and pulses and static in the air.

The sparks fly and Jensen’s eyes are on him again. “Take a deep breath for me, okay?”

He opens his lungs like he’s been underwater, sating his soporific soul with oxygenesis. Holds it, then breathes out, expelling the held-in anxiety. Tries to get his heart rate under control. It’s hard with those blazing green eyes on him.

Jensen nods, pleased with the way the needle stills on the e-Meter. His gaze flickers to Jared again.

“We will begin the session now,” he says, low and tranquilizing. “You will remain aware of everything that goes on.”

Jared nods. Swallows the lump in his throat.

“We’re going to find an incident in your life that you have an exact record of. Then, by sending you through it at the time it happened, we’re going to reduce it. We will reduce the pain. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Here we go.” Jensen leans forward and fiddles with a knob on the e-Meter. “Jared, can you recall a time you felt angry?”

He pauses, thinks for a moment, traces his brainwaves for an outburst somewhere in the not too distant past. “Yesterday, my roommate left half-an-inch of milk in the carton again. Drives me crazy.”

“Thank you,” says Jensen, serious as a heart attack. He’s staring at the e-Meter and jotting things down. “Is the memory light or heavy?”

Jared blinks. “Um… I’m not sure.”

“Does the memory feel light or heavy?” he repeats.

“Uh, light.”

Jensen nods. “Jared, can you recall a time you felt angry?”

Jared falters, ever-so-slightly loosening the cans in his grasp. “But I just —“

“Tell me about another time you felt angry,” he rephrases, monotone and not meeting Jared’s eyes.

Jared takes a deep breath, tightens his grip on the cans again. Exhales. “Sometimes I feel angry at the museum when waste-of-timers come in, laughing with their friends like what we do is some big joke.” He shakes his head. “I bet if you hooked most of them up to the e-Meter, they’d register zero brain activity.”

Jensen’s eyes meet Jared’s and, for a split second, he swears he sees a glint of amusement in them. Just as quick, Jensen returns his gaze to the floating needle, scratching notes in his file. “Is the memory red or blue?”

“Blue.”

“Good. When was the first time you felt angry?”

Jared clenches his jaw. He knows this answer more quickly than the others. It’s buried deep, but floats right to the surface, screaming in his brain…

_Jared, close the door, sweetheart… — Leave it open. I want him to see this. — Jared, please, honey, go to your room. — I want him to see what happens when you don’t listen. — Please, please not in front of Jared, please…_

“Jared?”

He shakes his head, snapping out of his bad memory. Jensen’s observing him, a slight furrow in his brow.

“The first time I felt angry was when my mom told me we were moving to California.”

Although Jared’s not looking, he can feel Jensen’s eyes on him, sizing up and surveilling. “Go to the beginning of that incident. Tell me what’s happening.”

Jared exhales, feeling slightly on edge. He wasn’t prepared to think about this today. But Jensen Ackles asked him about it, so he spills.

“I was ten years old and my mom met this businessman. Smooth talking, big fake teeth, leisure suits, you know? They were only together a few weeks when she told me we were moving into his condo in Silicon Valley. I cried for an hour and ripped the stuffing right out of my pillow.”

Jared looks up to gauge Jensen’s reaction, and is somewhat saddened when he realizes he’s staring at the e-Meter. He supposes he shouldn’t be. Jensen is a professional and Jared can’t be anything more than a low-level shrimp to him.

“I don’t mind California now,” he adds, more casually. Shrugging it off. “Got used to Hollyweird.”

Jensen nods and Jared swears he hears a whispered titter rush past his lips: _Hollyweird._

They continue like this for an hour or two, Jensen asking and re-asking questions until he’s satisfied — until Jared starts getting to the heart of things. It’s invasive and _personal_ and Jared’s not sure why, but he feels strangely at ease with giving over the most intimate details of his life to Jensen, as if they’d known each other for lifetimes. Ever since his mother died, Jared’s never really had anyone to confide in. To _trust_.

And, most of all, the audit is _working_. Jared’s beginning to feel light-headed and floaty. Can almost feel the toxic thoughts spilling from his brain. Cleansing him.

After eighty-five more questions about childhood memories, alcohol use, and nervous tics, Jensen finally averts his gaze from the machine and looks up. “Jared, have you ever killed the wrong person?”

“No,” Jared stammers. The question is so blunt he can’t help but let out a nervous laugh. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

“Were you ever David Cassidy?” Jensen adds, stony-faced as ever.

“Was I ever — who?”

“Never mind.” Jensen blinks twice, a slight twinkle in his eye. Mutters a soft _eighteen_ under his breath before proceeding. “Can you recall a time when you felt happy?”

Jared thinks for a moment. Settles on it, the memory Jared’s been holding in since March 13th. The one he’s most eager to let slip. He takes an easy breath. “When I saw you come onstage at LRH’s birthday.”

The pen-scratches cease and Jensen freezes, shifting slightly in his chair. He meets Jared’s eyes. Green and brown combining into hazel.

“Jared,” he starts, not reproachful but disbelieving, “you shouldn’t tell me what you _think_ I want to hear.”

“I’m not,” he replies, quiet, truthful. There’s a rush of exhilaration, a flutter of wings. Of confession, _catharsis_.

Jensen’s pupils widen just a fraction before he regains the cold detachment of an auditor. Clears his throat. “Go to the beginning of that incident. Tell me what’s happening.”

Jared takes a deep breath and lets his eyes flutter closed. His fingers squeeze gently on the cool metal cans, like the soft press of a peach. Relishes their weight in his hands and lets the low thrum of current pulse through him. He smiles, feeling light and airy now. The words fall easy from his tongue.

“I’m in the crowd. There are people clapping and cheering all around me. It’s loud, _too loud_. The lights are blinding.” He feels the smile stretch out across his face. Feels like he’s floating. “But then I look up… and I see you. You… in your Sea Org uniform, saluting and standing tall. I can’t look away. And the next thing I hear comes from my own mouth, a whisper of absolute certainty: _He is going to save the world_.”

The only sound in the room is oxygen as time slows to a standstill. Jared’s flying high above the room, looking down at the two of them, locked together in space and time. Lets his head loll back, stretches the cords in his neck and gives himself over. Transcendence. Icarus.

The pen isn’t scratching. There are no words, no giving voice to the confession that hangs in the balance. The memories released from his reactive mind.

There are only _theta-bops_ and euphoria.

What seems like lifetimes later, Jared opens his eyes and meets piercing green. Jensen is staring at him, a pink flush colouring the apples of his cheeks. He tugs at his collar. It’s hot under there. Jared can feel it in waves.

“This concludes the session,” says Jensen at last, clearing his throat. Straightens up and flies right. Shuffles his notes around. “Place the cans back on the table and take a few deep breaths.”

Jared does as he is told, feeling floaty and clear-headed. Watches carefully as Commander Ackles switches off the e-Meter. Surely imagines the little tremble of his capable hands as he disconnects crossed wires and unplugs electric hookups.

“How do you feel?” he asks, avoiding Jared’s eye as he packs up the machine.

“Lighter.”

“Good,” he says, standing and moving towards the exit. He opens the door and holds it ajar. “You may return to your assigned duties now.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Jared, grateful for the opportunity. He gets up from his chair, legs shaking like a newborn fawn, and moves towards the door. Gets a half-step past him when…

“Jared —”

_And oh god that word sounds so good on his lips_.

He turns and faces Commander Ackles, just an arm’s length away. The e-Meter is off, but electricity still hums in the air.

“Good work today.”

Jared nods, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. He leaves the room feeling like he could single-handedly take on the world.


	6. The Reactive Mind

Jared’s purchased an old pair of black coveralls from the Church equipment shop. It’s got one torn sleeve, a hole in the armpit, and buttons missing. Standard grunt-work issue, on sale for $12.95.

The rips and tears are a hidden blessing, however, because the California sun is unforgiving today. It beats down on his neck as he sweeps cigarette butts off the sidewalk in front of the Scientology Celebrity Centre, all part of his volunteer duties. It’s a decent gig for a movie fan because, depending on the day, you just might catch a glimpse of a famous face, darting from a tinted-windowed limousine to the Centre, trying to avoid the paparazzi. He’s never seen Tom Cruise in the flesh, but it’s only a matter of time.

People pass him by, levelling pitying looks at him as he sweats and sweeps in silence. Little do they know that Jared is the one who pities _them_. They know nothing of Daniel Killian or Jensen Ackles and the work they’re doing to clear the planet. Saving everyone’s sorry lives. He shakes his head, fighting off his irritability, and continues his task. One more hour and he’s off to the museum for the evening shift.

The sunburn on the back of his neck itches as he does his part to clean up the city streets — the discarded drug needles, used condoms, and candy wrappers. He’s exhausted and more than a little cantankerous, his back tight and his muscles aching from the broom, but it’s all for the greater good. If he wants to clear the planet, he first has to get clear himself, work his way up the Bridge until he’s not a pre-Clear anymore. There’s more to life than being a grunter.

Every now and then he’ll stop and nod to a fellow Church member who’s manning a recruitment kiosk. Occasionally, a passer-by stops for a FREE PERSONALITY TEST — the patented Oxford Capacity Analysis. OCR, for short.

_Do you browse through bus timetables, directories, or dictionaries just for pleasure?_

_Do you consider the modern prisons without bars system “doomed to failure?”_

_Is your life a constant struggle for survival?_

Come do a course. One time payment. $50. No obligation.

Jared remembers that test, how strange it was. How weird the questions sounded (“Are you sometimes completely unable to enter the spirit of things?”) but he’d answered them anyway. He often wondered about all the people who failed the test. Did they have a bad personality? Were they banished from the Church?

Come to think of it, Jared’s never heard of anyone ever failing the OCR.

_Whoop, whoop, beep!_

Jared straightens up at the siren call. Watches in awe as the official Sea Org motorcade approaches, creeping along Franklin Avenue. He performs a salute as the black cars with blacker windows drive, one by one, through the front gates of the Celebrity Centre. Jared squints, the sunlight gleaming off the tinted windows, wondering if Commander Ackles is on the other side of any of them. He fixates on the back window of one of the cars, his skin tingling, and imagines he’s there, staring back at him. They disappear through the gates.

Jared sighs. He’s counting down the hours until his next audit just like he counts the cigarette butts on the sidewalk.

When the day ends, he shuffles back to his apartment on North Hoover. Eduardo bombards him as soon as he gets one foot in the door. “Jay, who would win in a fight, Mark Wahlberg or Bobby Brown?”

“Um…”

His roommates are having a party, but Jared’s too worn out and sun-beaten to make idle chitchat about which boy bander would win in a death match, so he just shrugs and grumbles something about how they’re both from Boston so it’d be a fair fight. He starts to slip off toward his shared bedroom, when Eduardo pulls him aside.

“Hey, you never told me how your audit went…” he asks, eyes shifty.

Jared doesn’t want to share. He wants to keep it all for himself, buried deep inside in that special place. But the memory of it, of _him_ , is so raw, he can’t help but half-smile. “It was incredible. I feel lighter already.”

“Did you get Robichaud?”

“No,” says Jared, trying to suppress his smile. “Ackles.”

Eduardo’s eyes bulge. “You got Ackles? And you feel _better_? Jesus, I got him too and he was a fucking Nazi.”

Jared furrows his brow. “Really?”

“Total dickweed. Didn’t lay off until I answered all my questions without blinking. _You_ try not blinking for five minutes straight. It’s fucking impossible.” He shakes his head, frowns in befuddlement. “He wasn’t like that with you?”

Jared searches the recesses of his mind, replays the curious line of questioning, the subtle back and forth, little eye-twinkles and _good work todays_. Feels pink blush creeping up his neck and figures evasion is his best way forward. “Oh, yeah, I guess he was like that…”

Eduardo nods. “Complete asshole, right?”

“Yeah…” he hums as Eduardo claps him on the shoulder and returns to the kitchen.

At last, Jared reaches the cozy confines of his bedroom and shuts the door. The mattress, unforgiving as always, squeaks and groans when he collapses onto it. But he promises himself he can only rest his eyes for twenty seconds. He’s still got two hours of studying to do before bed. If he’s ever going to climb the Bridge high enough to reach the OT levels, fighting alongside Daniel Killian and Jensen Ackles, he’s going to have to work for it.

_The way out is the way through._

After his twenty second respite, just enough to wet his prickly pupils, he grabs his tattered copy of _Dianetics_ ($2.50 in a used bookstore off Melrose) and flips open to page 62. He reads:

_The reactive mind is very rugged. It would have to be in order to stand up to the pain waves which knock out other sentience in the body._

He pauses, finger lingering on that unknown S-word. With effort, he rolls over on the mattress and hangs over the edge, digging around under his bed for his dictionary. Blood rushing to his head, he flips to the “S” section and finds what he is looking for:

sentient _| ‘sen(t)SH(e)ent | adjective; able to perceive or feel things_.

Head swimming, he pulls himself back up onto the bed and continues:

_The reactive mind is not very refined. But it is the most awesomely accurate. It possesses a low order of computing ability, an order which is sub-moron, but one would expect a low order of ability from a mind which stays in circuit when the body is being crushed or fried._

Raucous laughter reverberates from the kitchen party through his bedroom door. It burrows deep in Jared’s ears, but he does his best to ignore it.

_The reactive bank does not store memories as we think of them. It store engrams. These engrams are a complete recording, down to the last accurate detail, of every perception present in a moment of partial or full “unconsciousness.”_

Jared groans. He’s exhausted, but he simply cannot continue in good conscious without hanging over the bed frame again and flipping to the dictionary’s “E” section:

engram _| ‘engram | noun; a hypothetical permanent change in the brain accounting for the existence of memory; a memory trace._

Rubbing at his eyes, he resets and continues his study:

_Engrams are just as accurate as any other recording in the body. But they have their own force. They are like phonograph records or motion pictures, if these contained all perceptions of sight, sound, smell, taste, organic sensation, etc._

“OHHHHHHHHH!! DUDE!!!”

Jared grits his teeth as the kitchen voices grow louder. It’s near impossible to focus on _Dianetics_ with all the stomping and shouting. But he tries:

_The difference between an engram and a memory, however, is quite distinct. An engram can be permanently fused into any and all body circuits and behaves like an entity._

“ _WOOOOOOOOO!!!!_ ”

A rowdy cheer breaks out and Jared can’t take it anymore. He throws his book across the room in a fit of rage and it hits the door so hard it leaves an indent. Jared collapses backwards on the bed, tears of exhaustion burning behind his eyes, and his heart thumping furiously.

After a moment of deep breathing, he gets up and retrieves the thrown book from the floor, resigning himself to the fact that he’ll have to wake up two hours early tomorrow to fit in the study time he missed. He pets the front cover of _Dianetics_ to soothe the dog-eared crease from the impact and places it gently on the nightstand.

He clicks off his reading lamp and liberates his Clearsound Listening System from his drawer, the one and only gift his step-father allowed him to pick out of the Scientology Christmas Catalog (“For $400, the Clearsound Listening System gives you perfect clarity on the route to knowledge!”). He affixes the squishy foam headphones over his ears and hits “Play.” The rock and roll anthem, “The Road to Freedom,” featuring the crooning vocals of a young John Travolta, blasts through the speakers and transports him to another world. He shuts his eyes and lets himself drift away.

_Get on the road to freedom!_   
_Help us free all mankind!_   
_The pain and all your sorrow,_   
_Are only in your mind!_

_Oh!_   
_Puzzle! Puzzle!_   
_Trouble! Trouble!_   
_Arcane, Insane,_   
_Spirit Reign!!_

~~~

“Jared, are you on the moon?”

Blink, twitch. His eyes flutter open to the sight of Commander Ackles sitting across the table, gold Sea Org buttons glimmering like stars. Evidently, Jared’s fallen into a half-sleep stupor, disoriented and dizzy as he grips the metal e-Meter cans. His second ever auditing session.

“No,” he answers, unsure whether it was an audit question or a wakeup call. “I’m in Audit Room #3.”

Jared’s fresh off a four-hour Pro Metering course about how to deliver Objective Processing and gain the ability to orient oneself in the present time of the physical universe, so the innocuous query about the moon is a welcome respite for his brain.

“Am I an ostrich?”

Jared barks out a laugh for the first time in days. Can’t help himself. Shakes his head, “No.”

“Are you sure?” Jensen peers at him over his glasses, a hairline smile at the corner of his lips. He’s quite striking that way.

Jared grins. “Pretty sure, yes.”

Jensen half-chuckles and returns to the e-Meter, adjusting the dials. “Have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?”

“No.”

“Have you ever tried to act normal?”

Jared thinks for a moment. “Sometimes I pretend to be interested in people.”

“Why?” says Jensen, his ears perking up.

He shrugs. “To get things out of them, I guess.”

Jensen rests the tip of his pen against his bottom lip, looking pensive. He’s patently ignoring the e-Meter now in favour of the eighteen-year-old enigma sitting opposite him.“What kinds of things?”

“Depends. Like the people at the museum…” he says, biting his lip, “I pretend to take an interest in them so they’ll sign up for courses.”

“That’s quite cunning,” says Jensen, impressed. “And how do you feel about that? Manipulating people…”

“Er, fine, I guess. I mean, it’s not hurting anybody. Right?”

Jensen appraises him, removes the pen tip from his mouth. “I suppose not.”

There’s a silence as Jensen scratches notes on his file. Jared’s itching to say more… about how good he would be at spotting defectors, at pointing out SPs — Suppressive Persons. He wants Jensen to _know_.

“I do it with girls too,” he adds, feeling brave.

Jensen glances up, intrigued. “You manipulate them?”

“Yeah,” Jared utters, tonguing along his lower lip. “Sometimes I flirt with this girl at Dinosaur Coffee and she gives me free iced tea.”

Jensen blinks, searching for something. “But you don’t like her?”

“Nope. I mean, I’m sure she’s nice. But I don’t like her. Not like that.”

Jensen pauses for a moment, staring at Jared with curiosity. He hesitates and then glances back at the e-Meter, adding, almost like an afterthought, “You’re a heartbreaker, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Jared grins. He’s not sure what’s come over him, why he’s feeling so bold. “I’m only eighteen. Maybe I haven’t found anyone who holds my interest yet.”

He watches Jensen’s throat tighten as he swallows. Wonders briefly what the skin on his neck might smell like. Surely, Jared’s under some sort of audit trance. Lost all sense of boundaries.

“Jared, what made you join the Church?”

That’s an easy one. “I wanted to help people.”

Jensen almost sighs. Taps his pen on the desk. “Okay, but why did you _really_ join?”

Jared shifts in his seat, retrains his grip on the cans. “My Mom’s boyfriend got us into it.”

“Go to the beginning of that incident. Tell me what’s happening.”

He closes his eyes. There’s a memory on the tip of his mind, one that always hovers near the surface. “I remember being ten years old and standing on the beach at Wakiki Bay. I was happy then.”

“Wakiki Bay… Hawaii?”

“Yeah, my Mom and I lived there. It’s where I was born. Anyway, it was just a normal day, nothing special, and I was standing along the shore with my feet in the water, pulling the sand out from under my toes. I remember looking over my shoulder and seeing my Mom smiling at me. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. It made me laugh for some reason.”

Jensen’s pen slows its loopy lettering. He pauses the pen’s tip on the paper and glances up. “Are you close with your mother?” His voice is different now — less mechanical, more compassionate. Interested, _invested_.

“I was…” he replies, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Um, she died when I was thirteen.”

Jensen’s eyes soften, if only for a moment. “Sorry to hear that.”

Jared nods. He’s never talked about his mother with anyone. “She was beautiful. And funny, you know?” Jared’s eyes go hazy and he gets into a trance. Clutches the cans in his hands. “Anyway, that same day she met this California guy on a business trip. I guess they hit it off because next thing I knew we were moving to Silicon Valley. That’s when we got into Scientology.”

Jensen nods solemnly, like he already knows the end of the story. “And where is he now?”

“Dunno. He bailed when my Mom got sick. But it’s okay. It was the Church that helped me get focused, kept me straight after she…”—Jared’s voice trails off—“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this…”

The hint of a smile appears at Jensen’s mouth. “You’re supposed to tell me things,” he says, gently. “That’s why we’re here.” He’s stopped taking notes at this point, stopped analyzing the e-Meter, and is just listening. Like a friend. Like something more. He shifts. “Besides, I know how you feel.”

“Did you lose someone too?”

Jensen stares at him for a moment, unreadable, until he gives a little shake of his head and clears his throat. “In a manner of speaking.” He straightens up and clears his throat, changing the subject. “Let’s proceed with the audit.”

Jared nods. He sees the compassion in Jensen’s eyes, underneath the professional stance and keeping a straight face. And Jared desperately wants to know more — about Jensen’s life, his childhood, his trip up the Bridge; about the real man behind the carefully controlled facade. Now’s not the time. But somehow, deep down, Jared knows he’ll find out all the answers he needs someday. Like there’s a timepiece connecting them, counting back in negative seconds until _their_ moment arrives…

There are countless more questions about Jared’s financial habits (does cramming coins in a piggy bank count as investing?), how he feels about borrowing and lending possessions, what he _really_ thinks about Daniel Killian’s wife. After two hours, Jared’s placing the cans back on the table, feeling purged in the body and light in the brain.

“How are your lessons going?” inquires Jensen as he packs up the e-Meter, meticulously lining up each pieces in the foam case.

“Uh, good, I guess,” he says, swelling nervously. Jensen and him have never just chit-chatted before. “Although, if I’m honest, I’m on my twelfth passthrough of _Dianetics_ and I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. The reactive mind…” Jared trails off, shaking his head in befuddlement.

Jensen huffs a laugh. “It can be overwhelming.” He closes the e-Meter case and pushes it to one side. Stares for a brief moment at Jared before proceeding:

“I try to think of our minds as having two sides: the analytical side and the reactive side. See, the analytical side is like a computer. It’s flawless, it remembers everything, never makes a mistake.”

There’s an excitement, a _giddiness_ , in his voice. In imparting wisdom to others. He continues:

“But, on the other side is the _reactive_ mind. This is where all of our neuroses, our fears and anxieties are stored. And these feelings — humiliation and shame and sadness — come from _engrams_ , memories of traumas that have happened to us, in this life and past ones.”

“Engrams _,_ right,” hums Jared, recalling his research from a few nights prior, putting the pieces together. “And that’s what auditing is for: to talk about the engrams in our reactive mind.”

“Not just talk about them, but _clear_ them,” says Jensen, gently correcting. “Through auditing, if you can focus on an engram and observe exactly what happened to cause it, the power of that engram to influence you is exteriorized. Released.” Jensen’s eyes are sparkling. He drops his voice, speaking with hushed anticipation. Leans in. “Imagine a world where everyone’s mind is fully analytical. Imagine a world with no pain. That’s the world we’re creating, Jared. We’re going to clear the planet.”

Jared’s entire body is buzzing. He’s beginning to understand, to really _get it_. And he’s itching to do something. Something good. “I just want to get up the Bridge. To get _started_. How long did it take you to get to OT VII?”

“Years,” says Jensen, kindly. “There’s no fast track and you can’t rush things. Going up the Bridge too fast can do permanent damage to your brain if you’re not ready.” He shifts a little in his seat and then leans forward. “If, um… if you want, I can help you. Be here to talk things through if you ever need it.”

Jared blinks, his pulse pounding in his ears, because Jensen looks so pretty like this, willing and open and eager to help. To help _him_. It’s the best feeling in the world, feeling like you’re special. Like you’re _chosen_. “It would be an honour, sir.”

“Good,” he says, coy. And, unless Jared’s mistaken, a slight rosy blush appears on Jensen’s cheeks when he smiles. “You can tell me anything.”

Jared swallows and smiles shyly, “I will.”

“Okay,” says Jensen, fiddling with the tip of his pen. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Yes, sir. Goodnight.”

“Night.”


	7. The Tone Scale

Jared spends the next few days staying up half the night, scouring through _Dianetics_ until his eyes burn. But now, he’s searching for more questions than answers — anything to win more Ackles-style explanations about engrams, withholds, and ARC breaks.

After their last audit ended with a spirited discussion of the reactive mind, Jared finds himself with a renewed energy for mastering the tenets of _Dianetics_. He starts carrying his ten-pound dictionary around with him so he can look up every word he doesn’t understand. He studies on the city bus and, so far, has overshot his stop at Sunset  & Cherokee twice, grabbing a quick In-N-Out Burger before doubling back to the _Industry of Death_ museum. He shuns his housemates, except at mealtimes when he joins them at the table and half-listens while recopying his course notes.

It’s a complete slog, and at times he feels his brain is overcapacity — like it’s soaked up and saturated, can’t possibly hold any more definitions, but then, like a sponge, he rings himself out and starts again.

Tonight Jared’s volunteering at the Church’s outdoor movie theatre. Some Steven Spielberg action flick with dinosaurs. As he rips ticket stubs at the garden’s entrance, he watches blankly as many of his classmates from the halls of Big Blue file in, tittering about Laura Dern. He pities them, really. Because he knows that, like the Bridge courses themselves, an alarming number of his peers are only in the Church out of habit — their parents had been raised in it just like _their_ parents before them. Scientology is all they know. They approach studying and volunteer work with an indifference Jared will never understand. For he’s there with the sheer tyranny of _purpose_ , for one reason and one reason alone: to enter into the Sea Org like Jensen. It’s his destiny — to one day sign a Billion Year contract and enter the most elite paramilitary organization the world has ever seen. To leave all the jerk-offs and time-wasters behind, the ones who are on track to becoming SPs, _Suppressive Persons_.

Jared shivers. He’ll die before becoming an SP.

So he doesn’t watch _Jurassic Park_. Doesn’t glue his eyes to the screen or lift his head when the crowd _oohs_ and _ahhs_ at dinosaur sounds. Instead, he slinks off to the back of the garden and opens up to the dog-eared page of Ruth Minshull’s _How to Choose Your People_ , getting lost in her reflections on Hubbard’s Tone Scale, a classification of people according to how spiritually alive they are, from -40.0 (Total Failure) to +40.0 (Serenity of Beingness). Reads more about the reactive mind — how all of his fears and nervous tics (chewing his tongue, stuttering, making mistakes) come from engrams, the toxic-tinged memories living and breathing inside him. Waiting to be cleared. Purged. Ejaculated.

His mind wanders to Commander Ackles. To the rosy blush at the apples of his cheeks that always seems to appear when he unplugs the e-Meter. To the tinkling tongue-sounds of _I’m here if you ever need mes_ and _You can tell me anythings_. Unwittingly, something happens to Jared’s belly whenever he thinks about him. It _flips_ when he mulls over their time together. How it’s never enough. How much Jared longs for _more_.

And then it hits him all at once, like an electric shock to the brain, when his trigger-finger pauses at one of Ruth Minshull’s written passages:

_Homosexuals don’t practice love; 1.1s can’t._

Jared’s stomach drops. _Ho-mo-sex-u-al_. He doesn’t need a dictionary to know what that word means. Doesn’t need an e-Meter to interpret the deep black pit that swells inside him, seeping like poison, flooding his veins and taking no mercy. Eighteen years old and he’s never questioned it, his complete disinterest in girls. He’s always figured his first love is the Church. Never, not once, figured that he might be… that his feelings for _him_ might be anything other than worship and admiration.

Trembling, he reads on:

_Homosexual relationships consist of: 1) brief, sordid and impersonal meetings or 2) longer arrangements punctuated by dramatic tirades, discords, jealousies and frequent infidelity. It could hardly be otherwise since the tone is made up of suspicion and hate, producing a darling sweetness interspersed with petty peevishness. Their “love” turns to deep contempt eventually._

The muffled screams of moviegoers, of dinosaur roars, fade into the background as Jared recedes like a slow-motion dream. He clutches his heart to stop it from bursting through, and is overcome with anxiety about what’s happening to his body, his pulse, his neurons, firing on all cylinders; blood rushing between his thighs and making him achy. He places his book in his lap to hide his shame as he flips a few pages until that wretched H-word catches his eye again; a quote from Hubbard himself:

_Homosexuality is a mental aberration. Such an individual aberrated enough about sex will do strange things to be a cause or an effect. He will substitute punishment for sex. He will pervert others._

Pulse racing, he flips open his dictionary to the “A”s and traces until he finds what he’s looking for:

aberration | , _abe’raSH(e)n | noun; a departure from what is normal, usual, or expected, typically one that is unwelcome_

The tears burn like the words scratched on the backs of his eyelids. He closes the book and swallows the lump in his throat. Stares up at the screen and watches Sam Neill, wondering how he’s going to hide himself and his preoccupations during his next audit.

And whether Jensen’s going to handcuff and declare him when he finds out.

~~~

The next day, Jared’s early for his course, nervous and tapping his toe while he waits for the rest of the class to file in. Other than perpetual droopy-eyed exhaustion, everyone looks like they haven’t a care in the world. Meanwhile, Jared’s been up half the night fighting the urge to touch himself, to see if his newfound suspicions are _true_. As soon as Lieutenant Wozniak arrives, he raises his hand and keeps it there until she’s finished unpacking her briefcase.

She sighs. “A question already, Jared?”

“Yes,” he begins, unfazed by her irritation. “How can we trust the words written by someone other than Hubbard himself? If LRH is Source, then what right do others have to write about his findings?” As he speaks, he trembles with something — anger, shame, fear; he’s not quite sure.

LT Wozniak scrunches her nose. “I don’t follow your logic.”

Jared clenches his teeth and clutches his copy of _How To Choose Your People_ , holding it aloft. “Take this book. These aren’t LRH’s actual words, so how do we know we can believe them? What makes Ruth Minshull so special?”

Somewhere behind him, one of his classmates gasps. LT Wozniak takes her glasses off and hangs them down around the chain on her neck, speaking measuredly. “Ruth Minshull was a very close confidant and personal friend of L. Ron Hubbard. We can certainly trust what she says to be true.”

“But what if she’s _wrong_? What if she misheard him? Or misunderstood?”

LT Wozniak summons a pitying smile. “Jared, I know it may be hard to believe, but there are people with more expertise in LRH’s theories than you.”

The classroom fills with taunting _ooooohs_. A deep slash of shame rips through him. He’s gutted.

“ _Silence_ ,” snaps LT Wozniak. “Open _Dianetics_ to page seventy-three and pay attention.”

Jared keeps quiet for the remainder of the class. He barely speaks for the rest of the day. And lying in bed that night, even the sounds of John Travolta’s “The Road to Freedom” on full blast can’t drown out the words that pound in his ears like sledgehammers:

_Oh!_   
_Tirades, jealousy!_   
_Frequent infidelity!_   
_Aberration! Deviation!_   
_Peevish! Pervert!_   
_"Love!!”_

~~~

It’s two more long days and nights until Jared manages to shove down all of the mixed feelings about Ruth Minshull and Lieutenant Wozniak and freaking John Travolta into the pit of his stomach. Comes to the conclusion that, sure, he gets feelings sometimes — finds himself lingering too long on models on Hollywood Boulevard and Brad Pitt billboards — but it’s not like he has to act on them.

He realizes he’s probably been playing it straight ever since he was fourteen and first saw _Top Gun_. Figures he should have known then, after his friends had fawned over Kelly McGillis that his indifference to the actress had made him _aberrant_. That it wasn’t normal to speak about Tom Cruise in any context other than his being a good Scientologist. But the fact remains, Jared’s always had strange urges like this, but he’d learned quickly and quietly not to speak of them. For, if he can control his body, perhaps one day he can control his mind.

It’s difficult when there’s a Michelangelic specimen seated like a statue across from him in Audit Room #3.

“What represents yourself?”

Jensen Ackles fiddles with the e-Meter pulse knob. It’s Jared’s third audit and he getting used to it.

“Probably the Church,” he answers, clutching the cans. “Its devotion and discipline.”

It’s been a full week since their last audit together, the one where Jared felt like he’d gotten closer. The one where he’d been left clinging to the shreds of humanity and intimacy that Jensen had dared let slip — his desire to change the world, the offer to help Jared ascend the Bridge, the fact that he’d lost someone too, _in a manner of speaking_. And as he transfixes on the smattering of freckles across Jensen’s cheeks, Jared quietly wonders if everyone else’s audits are like this. If what he’s feeling is normal.

Deep down, he wishes it isn’t. That their time together is _special_ somehow.

“How could you help yourself generally?” poses Jensen, pressing pen to paper.

Jared hums. Jensen’s been asking more introspective questions today and it’s making him feel pinned down, like he’s got to dig up all the parts of himself he likes to keep buried. The uncomfortable parts. “I think I’d get a better handle on things if I bought more audiotapes. I like reading, but sometimes the words make my brain hurt. I like hearing LRH’s voice in my head.”

“No…” Jensen shakes his head, huffing gentle exasperation. “Tell me something that doesn’t relate to Scientology. Tell me something _real_.”

Jared doesn’t mind digging, especially when he’s sharing the load with someone he trusts, but it takes some heavy lifting to get to the bottom. “I could be happier,” he says after a moment of reflection. “I think I take myself too seriously. I never used to do that.”

“Thank you,” says Jensen, blinking those pretty green eyes. He’s satisfied, Jared can tell. “And what would make you happier?”

Jared takes a deep breath and tries not to stare too long at Jensen’s butterfly eyelashes, a near impossible task when the blueish lamp light hits them just right so they almost flutter. “I dunno. Maybe someone to talk to about everything. Someone to confide in, to share all of this with. Like a brother… or a friend.”

There’s a perceptible shift in Jensen’s demeanour. He gets softer, somehow. Parts his lips and gazes dreamily at the e-Meter. Gets quiet and hums, “Do you consider me a friend, Jared?”

“Yes,” he breathes, an easy smile on his face that turns mischievous at the edges. “Or something like that.”

The blush at Jensen’s cheeks, spreading along his neck to the tips of his ears, gives Jared a thrill. He’s never seen him so pinkish before. And if speaking from the heart colours Jensen pretty like this, Jared vows to never be obfuscatory again.

“How do you feel about being controlled?” says Jensen, willing his rose-cheeks away as he proceeds with the audit.

“I’m a good listener and I follow the rules. But I don’t think it’s possible to control me.”

Jensen looks up, peering over his glasses. “No?”

“No,” repeats Jared, steadfast. “I’m here because I want to be.”

Jensen blinks several times. Perhaps it’s an unexpected response. Perhaps it seems out of character or naive. Jared doesn’t care. It’s the truth. He’s here because he wants Jensen to know he can help him change the world, not for vanity or celebrity or blind devotion. He wants Jensen to know that he’s _choosing_ this. Choosing _him_.

“And how do you feel about… controlling others?”

Jared lets out a quiet laugh. “I’m not sure I’m charming enough to hold anyone’s interest.”

Jensen cocks an eyebrow. “We both know that’s not true.”

Jared blushes red, feels the blood heat rush straight through him. There’s a slight coquettishness to Jensen’s voice, like he’s teasing, _flirting_. They stare at each other for a long moment, electricity sparking and, suddenly, Jared feels very on edge — like Jensen is toying with him, like he can’t quite relax or get settled, like he’s gotten too comfortable and the tables are turning. A shift in the air gives him goosebumps.

There’s a reason they call him Commander.

“Have you ever done something you shouldn’t have when you were supposed to be in bed or asleep?” Jensen asks, tongue audaciously flicking over his bottom lip.

Surely Jared’s seeing things. “No…”

“Jared, come on,” he says, goading him. Runs his tongue over the back of his teeth in a way that makes Jared’s toes curl. “Have you ever done something you shouldn’t have when you were supposed to be asleep?”

He bites his lip and wracks his brain, tightening the cans in his palms. He’s never stolen anything. Never hit anybody. Always done whatever’s been asked of him. But this? There are _engrams_ weighted so heavy they’d sunk right to the deepest depths of his brain, but he can feel their edges sharpening on the soft sea bed. “I don’t think — no.”

Jensen leans in, fishing for it. “Have you ever done something you shouldn’t have when you were supposed to be asleep?”

Jared shuts his eyes and opens his mind. Reaches back into its depths, neurological tentacles feeling around, and at last hooks the sunken _engrams_. His cheeks turn an instant pink. He’s been so good at repressing it, for so long. _God damn Ruth Minshull_. “Sometimes I, um, fornicate with myself.”

He feels Jensen’s eyes rake over him, which makes his hands sweat. It feels so good, in a strange way, to tell someone. To give voice to the guilt and the taboo. _Aberration_.

Jensen exhales, returns to the e-Meter and pushes his slipping glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Do you ejaculate?”

Jared’s cheeks burn. “Yes.”

“So you enjoy it, then. Touching yourself…”

The metal cans are getting slippery. “Yes, I - I like it.”

He opens his eyes, watches as Jensen makes a little note in his file. Takes a deep breath.

“How do you feel about sex, Jared?”

Jared balks, taken aback by the bluntness of it. _Sex_. If he’s honest, he thinks about it every spare moment he’s not reading _Dianetics_. But he’s _never_ heard an Action Chief, or any other adult for that matter, utter the word. “I, um… I’m not sure.”

“Are you a virgin?”

Jared coughs. “Yes, I think so…”

“What have you done sexually?”

Jared cringes, half-high, half-hard. And he can’t stop himself now — he’s at the mercy of Jensen’s invasion and, what’s more, a sick part of him actually _wants_ Jensen to know about everything. “A hand job. Just one.”

Jensen’s eyes narrow. “Giving or receiving?”

“Receiving, duh,” he says, flushing with embarrassment. He squirms in his seat, his cheeks dark crimson now.

Jensen makes a note. There’s mischief in his eyes. “Jared, do you have a vagina?”

“ _No_ ,” says Jared. Can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Do you ever wish you had one?”

“Ha, no way… _Never_.”

Jensen laughs, the first time he’s done that. Jared takes note of the sun-kissed crinkles at his eyes and his pretty teeth. “Are my questions embarrassing?”

“Yeah,” Jared returns a grin, blushing like a girl, “a little.”

Jensen softens. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know you won’t.”

There’s a heavy swell warming between Jared’s thighs and the e-Meter’s become inconsequential.

Jensen’s doing a private study now.

He taps his pencil on his lips, appraising Jared from across the table. Leans forward. “Jared, have you ever practiced homosexuality?”

“No,” blurts Jared, a little too quickly. One of the cans nearly slips from his hands.

Repeat. “Have you ever practiced homosexuality?”

Jared flutters his eyelashes, feeling like an ant under a magnifying glass. His cock swells hard. Shakes his head. “No, I swear.”

Jensen bites down softly on the pen tip. Drops his voice low. “But you’ve thought about it, haven’t you?”

Jared’s palms are sweating, his heart pounding blood to achy places. He takes a shuddery breath, releasing all his apprehensions, his neuroses, his pain. “ _Yes_.”

For the first time since they’ve started their audits, Jensen doesn’t take notes. Instead, he taps the end of the lead on the page, his cheeks flushing pink like the eraser. He’s _different_ now, Jared notices. Vulnerable. At ease.

“Homosexuality is not permitted in Scientology,” hums Jensen, shyly tilting his head and avoiding Jared’s eyes. “It’s a covert hostility — a 1.1 on the Tone Scale.” He stutters. “S-spiritually dead.”

“Yes, I read that. I’m a… what do they call it… a deviation. A _pervert_.”

Jensen cringes at that, his shoulders folding inward. He stares solemnly down at the page while he rolls the pencil between his fingers. “And… you don’t mind?”

“Yeah, I think I mind.” Jared bites his lip, stares at the five o’ clock shadow on Jensen’s clenched jaw. He wants to reach out and stroke it. “But what can I do? I get these thoughts. These urges.”

“I know,” admits Jensen, in a fog. Then, at last, he looks up, his cheeks rosy and his eyes sad. “But if you’re going to make it up the Bridge, you’ve got to learn to control them.”

Jensen is practiced. Disciplined. Tightly wound.

And prime for unravelling.

“How?”

Jensen shakes his head. “You bury them. You push them down, deep down, so far inside yourself that even auditors can’t find them. You shut that part of yourself off so the world can never take it from you.”

Hearing Jensen speak like this, so earnest, like an exposed nerve, makes tears burn at the corners of Jared’s eyes. There’s something between them, a mutual understanding of sorts. Unspoken. Off the record.

After a moment of consideration, Jensen reaches down into his satchel and pulls out one of Hubbard’s old novels. “Actually, this book really helped me out when I was…”—he clears his throat, reconsiders his words—“well, just generally, I suppose.” He presses his thumb down gently on a creased corner of the cover. “You can borrow it if you’d like.”

“Alright,” he says, accepting the paperback. Runs his fingertips over the torn spine of _The Dynamics of Life_ , feeling all warm inside. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”

Jensen smiles and bows his head once, reaffirming Jared’s commitment to the cause. To repression and confession. Because, through compartmentalization, they’ll reach catharsis.

After a moment, Jensen exhales and picks up his auditing sheet, searching for more questions to ask, more excuses to keep Jared around. He settles on a general one at last:

“What question shouldn’t I ask you again?”

Jared thinks for a moment and then smiles. “Whether or not I’m your friend.”

They end the audit with a quiet acceptance that passes between them like current, as though looking at each other is like looking into a mirror, one that reveals all of their circuitry and synapses, each staring and searching and seeing the reflection of their idealized self — the one that’s been right in front of them all along.

Like an electric jolt to the heart.

~~~

Later that night, Jared’s between the sheets and waxing poetic about Jensen Ackles — the way the divot in his bottom lip makes his mouth look like a ripe peach, plump and juicy. If Jared could just run his fingertips over the skin, he would know if Jensen bruises easy. For now, he’ll settle for fingertips on borrowed pages; pages that Jensen _himself_ has grazed over.

He’s been up for hours, leafing through L. Ron Hubbard’s _The Dynamics of Life_ and studying every wrinkle, every crease, every tear; signs that Jensen was _here_ , reading the same words, underlining the important parts, scribbling notes in the margins with loopy handwriting.

Jared traces over every pencil indent, every strikethrough and every addendum, feeling like he _knows_ Jensen, somehow. That his scribbled words transcend the page and get swallowed up inside like Jared’s neuroses. It’s a tiny glimpse inside Jensen’s mind, but a glimpse nonetheless. And Jared takes it in, absorbs it like a sponge soaks up soap suds.

His feeling of fullness is subdued when he comes upon a particular underlined passage:

_The sexual pervert (and by this term Dianetics, to be brief, includes any and all forms of deviation in Dynamic II such as homosexuality, lesbianism, sexual sadism, etc and all down the catalogue of Ellis and Krafft-Ebing) is actually quite ill physically._

Jared’s belly aches. He takes a deep breath and chews over the typewritten words — _sexual pervert_ , _deviation_ , _ill physically_. He certainly doesn’t _feel_ like any of those things, but if LRH himself is the Source and he wrote these words to be true… maybe Jared _is_ an aberration after all.

Maybe he _is_ rotten.

Just when he’s ready to snap the borrowed book shut and wallow in his shame, he spots one of Jensen’s penciled-in margin notes next to the offending passage:

_“To love in spite of all is the secret to greatness. And may very well be the greatest secret in this universe.” ~ LRH_

Jared’s heart flutters as his thumb traces around each letter-loop. To him, it speaks of reassurance — that love, in any form, is power. That love is the thing. To love is to live.

All smiles, he closes the good book just like he closes his eyes. And as he pushes the soft pages in a line from his chest to his cock, he can’t help but drift-dream of disciplined men (or, just one man) in dress uniforms, touching him, kissing him, telling him he’s _theirs_.

In the middle of the night, he awakens in a sticky mess, the sweet smell of peaches and cream on the pages.


	8. The Sea Org

_Bang, bang, bang._

Jared’s working in the “Death of Art” room of the museum today, nailing up a headshot of Kurt Cobain, some rockstar who killed himself after getting on Ritalin. His headshot is wedged between two other Hollywood darlings: Marilyn Monroe, who died of a drug overdose six hours after seeing a psychiatrist, and Judy Garland, who perished on the bathroom floor after a 10 barbiturate pill prescription.

Speed kills.

Jared doubts that the Church cares very much about dead celebrities, but he thinks the pretty blond rockstar with sad blue eyes certainly brightens up the room. All the deadheads are nailed up right over the giant styrofoam gravestone with the word “CREATIVITY” carved into it. He’s been told time and again that Hollywood really was a dream factory before psychiatrists infiltrated it and clogged up the works.

Two lesbians come into the room, snickering and pointing at the portraits. Ever since his last audit, he’s been seeing gay people everywhere — on Melrose Avenue, on _Ellen_ , on billboards and Calvin Klein commercials.

“Hey look,” says the one with the shaved head. “James Dean died from psychiatry.”

The other one laughs. “ _Sure_ he did.”

Jared’s too exhausted to correct them. He’s got other things on his mind, namely how he’s going to afford the revised versions of his Class II textbook. He’s been told there’ve been a couple of crucial new edits. $59.95.

After the lesbians have moved on, he rubs a thumb on Marilyn Monroe’s beauty mark and lets his mind wander… if he wasn’t in the Church, he wonders if he could ever make it in Hollywood; if anybody would think he was good looking or desirable or good at conveying emotion. Wonders (selfishly) if the pay would be better. He’s averaging $0.17 an hour hanging headshots and his rent is way past due. If he keeps going the way he’s going, he’ll be scraping the bottom of his bank account in a matter of days. There are two dimes and some lint in his pocket.

As he sighs and stares at Kurt Cobain, he can’t help but think of Jensen, how they seem to have a similar face — how their eyes are full of melancholy, their soft features, the little bump on their noses.

There’s no doubt in Jared’s mind that Jensen could make it in Hollywood. He could be the next Leonardo DiCaprio if he wanted to. He’d be perfect for it — action man, gorgeous face, beautiful body and _oh so devoted_.

Jared’s seeing stars again.

_Memoria. Memoria._

~~~

Jared’s just finishing picking up today’s two hundred and seventeenth cigarette butt on the Sunset Strip when he feels a tap on the shoulder. It’s Junior Officer Wells from the Sea Organization.

“Commander Ackles wants to see you.”

Music to his ears.

Jared runs, never walks, the four blocks into the lobby of Big Blue. Once there, he takes the stairs two at a time to the seventh floor, ducks into a bathroom and cleans himself up as best he can — scrubs the sweat from his face, the dirt from under his fingernails, catches his breath and cups water in his palms to drink. Looks at himself in the mirror, only slightly disheveled and sunburned.

It will have to do.

He speed-walks down the hallway and pauses outside of the door that reads, CDR J. ACKLES. His heart races. He’s never been here before, in Jensen’s territory.

A _knock-knock-knock_ and a muffled _Come in_ later, Jared’s inside. And, for the first time, it really strikes him how beautiful Jensen is, sitting at his desk in a Sea Org uniform, gold pen in his hand, pressed to his bottom lip. How much he takes Jared’s breath away.

“Padalecki.”

Jared nods. “Sir.”

He’s beckoned to sit down in the chair opposite Jensen’s desk and, as he perches, he finds his hands begin to itch. He’s not quite sure what to do with them — he’s used to gripping the cans when he’s across from Commander Ackles like this.

“Do you know why I called you here today?” poses Jensen, calculated and serious, a true professional.

The tone of his voice makes Jared weak at the knees. “No,” he replies, cursing the quiver in his voice.

Part of him wants to shrink down, deep down, into the big empty place underneath it all and hide there with his impure thoughts. The other part wants to hold the cans right now, to have Jensen audit him and ask who he dreamed about last night, just to see how he’d react, what he’d say, how he’d look. Jared’s fingernails must be making little scratchy sounds at the edge of the chair, because Jensen glances at his hands and blinks twice.

“You’re moving up the Bridge very quickly,” Jensen says at last, the grit in his voice subsiding. “It’s impressive.”

Jared breathes a sigh of relief, letting out all the fear he’s been holding in his lungs; that’d he’d gotten himself in some sort of _trouble_. His cheeks flush, “Thank you, sir. Means a lot, coming from you.”

“You’re special, Jared,” says Jensen, gazing at him like he’s never seen an eighteen year old before; appraising him, drowning Jared in veneration. He repeats, softer, “I think you’re very special.”

Jared bites his lip and stares into those bright green eyes, the ones that seem to burn with things unspoken between them — invisible energy that hidden cameras will never detect. Secret languages are perfect for times you can’t find the right words anyway. And Jared’s lost all of his, brain scrambled from the undeserved praise, his insides sparking, flicker and flame.

Jensen straightens up, refocuses. “What do you know about the Sea Org?”

Jared’s eyes widen. “They’re the chosen ones. The ones Killian handpicks to clear the planet. They’re heroes.”

“Correct,” Jensen nods, the tips of his ears going pink. “The Sea Org is the most elite organization in the Church. We work, we march, we clear. It’s very demanding, reserved for only a select few.” He flicks his eyes to Jared. “Those with potential.”

It’s Jared’s turn to blush.

“I see something in you,” he continues. “That you’ve got what it takes.” He straightens up in his chair. “Jared, how would you like to join us in the Sea Org?”

Jared blinks, his mouth opening and closing several times; heart thumping and pulse racing. He’s elated. “ _Hell yes,_ I would.”

The carefully constructed mask on Jensen’s face slips as he tries and fails to suppress a smile, lets out a little laugh.

Jared’s breath hitches in his chest. It dawns on him that he’s being too cavalier. He corrects himself, “I mean, I would be honoured, sir.”

“Glad to hear it,” Jensen nods, eyes twinkling. “You’ll begin next week, joining this year’s EPF: Estate Project Force. It’s like a training camp for new recruits.”

Jared swallows. It’s the best moment of his life, no doubt, but he’s painfully aware of the fact he’ll have to relocate, leave L.A. “Er, the training’s down in Clearwater, Florida, right? At Flag?”

“Actually,” Jensen shakes his head, “I’m going to recommend you for advanced EPF training onboard the _MV Freewinds_.”

Jared nearly falls off his chair. “LRH’s ship? The one he commandeered to South America? When he discovered the OT levels? Where he wrote _Dianetics_?”

Jensen smiles. “The very same.”

He can scarcely conceive of his luck. Says a silent _thank you_ prayer to a God he doesn’t believe in. “And is that where I sign my —“

“— Billion Year contract? Yes.”

Jared beams. One billion years to save the planet. He’ll sign a _forever_ contract if it means he gets to see that look in Jensen’s eyes, the one that makes him feel invincible. Jared brushes his fingertips along his lips, adding quietly, “And will you be there?”

Jensen swallows, the beautiful Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Clears his throat. “Yes, I’ll be there, supervising your training and taking my OT VIII levels.” He smiles nervously, watching as Jared tries to process all of this. Can’t possibly.

“Thank you, sir. You’ll see, I live to serve the Church.” Jared blinks those honey brown eyes, the ones that feel wet with emotion. “I live to serve you.”

If Jared could bottle up the beauty in Jensen’s eyes in this moment, he would tie it around his neck like a lucky charm. And it would still be too overwhelming, because he is going aboard the _Freewinds_ with Jensen Ackles. He is joining the Sea Org. He is saving the world. With _him_ at his side.

If this is what saving the planet feels like, Jared can’t wait to tackle the universe.


	9. The Freewinds

_October, 1993.  
The Pacific Ocean_

“ _ALL ABOARD!_ ”

The clatter and clang of the seafaring bell reverberates deep in Jared’s ears as he walks up the gangway, right onto the _MV Freewinds_. It’s a beautiful day on the docks of San Pedro: the sun beats down on his shoulders, the soft breeze wisps across his cheeks. The air is thick with salt and seaweed and there are two dozen new recruits lined up and single-filing onto the deck; all hopeful, all embarking on an adventure to join the Sea Org, where they’ll get trained up to assume the responsibility of the ecclesiastical development of the Church, to spread the word to others, to help clear the planet of filth and disease.

Stepping onto the _Freewinds_ , with its iron floors and rusted edges, Jared is overcome with exhilaration. There’s _history_ here — from LRH’s voyages to the Virgin Islands, to the Sea Org’s formation, to its daring midnight escapes from the IRS secret forces. It’s all here.

There’s a great hustle and bustle on board. Junior Officers scurry around, tying and untying ropes, checking and double-checking the knots, the rigs, the mechanisms. White-clad Action Chiefs march tall along the upper decks, chatting to each other and remarking on the new recruits coming aboard. Jared pulls at his newly issued Sea Org uniform, dark blue naval garb with spit-shined boots, feeling giddy and antsy and terrified, quite frankly, as he walks along the ship. He looks to the upper decks but doesn’t see any familiar faces. Not yet.

“Hey, deckie, give me a hand with this, will ya?”

Jared startles, realizing a second too late that a Junior Officer holding a rope is talking to him. He drops his bag and jogs over.

“You know how to tie a Cleat Hitch?”

“No…” says Jared, feeling like maybe he’s already missed some essential part of pre-training. Like he’s unprepared.

“Here, it’s easy.”

The Junior Officer demonstrates how to tie the Cleat Hitch knot and then lets Jared give it a go. After two tries, he gets it.

“‘Preciate it, deckie,” the man grins, clapping Jared on the shoulder and extending his hand. “Junior Officer Tom Welling. Welcome aboard.”

“Thanks,” says Jared, shaking his hand. He seems friendly enough. Jared relaxes a little and makes his way back over to his bag, watching over the side of the ship as Ensigns and Junior Officers untie the ropes anchoring the boat to the dock. He takes a deep breath and just lets the history of where he’s standing wash over him.

He knows from his research that the _Freewinds_ , in addition to being the exclusive training vessel for high-ranking Scientologists, it’s a playground for various recreational activities. Last year, Daniel Killian threw a birthday party voyage to Curaçao for Tom Cruise who, rumour has it, got up and reenacted his _Risky Business_ dance to a Bob Seger cover band. Decades ago, L. Ron Hubbard was mapping out the constellations on its maiden voyage, giving hands-on training to the select few that would form the basis of the Sea Org. And now Jared is standing where they all stood once, feeling the gentle ebb and flow of the waves lapping at the hull.

_BWAAAAAAMP._

The deafening horn sounds, announcing their imminent departure, and the Junior Officers scramble to get back on deck. There are a few onlookers gazing up at the ship, perhaps relatives or tourists, but otherwise there’s not much fanfare. But there’s a buzz _inside_ as Jared feels the boat move away from the dock, taking to the sea at last. Rumour has it they’re sailing the new recruits down to the Caribbean for six months of training for the most exceptional paramilitary force in the entire universe. Jared can scarcely believe he is _here_ , even though he’s felt the destiny in his bones since before he can remember.

As they pull away from San Pedro, the sun-smog Port of Los Angeles, Jared nearly loses his footing. It’s all so much at once — leaving, beginning, embarking. He’s sailing into uncharted waters without a map. But then, as if a prayer had been answered, he looks up to one of the upper decks, squints into the sun and sees the gleaming silhouette of Commander Jensen Ackles, radiant in his white naval uniform, haloed like a Sun God.

Jared smiles. Suddenly, the butterflies in his belly give way to overwhelming certainty that he can swab decks and ace audits and recite _Dianetics_ better than any of these other recruits. Because Jensen called him _special_ , and he’s going to prove it. He’ll do anything to prove it.

There’s a joyful tear in Jared’s eye as he deep-breathes the ocean air.

This is exactly where he belongs.

~~~

The first week is Hell.

It takes time for Jared to get used to his new EPF schedule. How wake-up call is a shrill whistle at 6h30, followed by a mad rush to make beds, scurry into civies and sprint to the mess hall, where you’re lucky to get more than a boiled egg and a slab of stale toast. How morning muster is on top deck at 7h00 _sharp_ , fully outfitted and in formation behind the daily assigned Action Chief. How Lieutenant-Commander Davis is the absolute worst — four days in a row he’s assigned Jared cleaning duty, fighting the mould and grime in the lower deck bathrooms with nothing but a toothbrush and some grout polish.

After morning work, it’s a thirty-second shower followed by a haphazard lunch, both packed into a thirty minute period that really only ends up being twelve once they get dismissed. Then the afternoon is spent doing various ship drills to build strength and character. The third day has him and one of his bunkmates, Chad Murray, raising and lowering life boats until their hands were raw and blistered with rope burns. (The fourth day provides no relief with three-and-a-half straight hours of knot-tying.)

Once drills are over, you wash up for dinner and spend the evening doing coursework — Scientology tape-listening, auditor courses, or studying NED (New Era Dianetics). By the time the bedtime whistle blows (usually around midnight, sometimes later), Jared’s bones and brains feel like puddles on the meticulously mopped floor: melted, melded, and muddled. Before he collapses on his bunk, he fills out his productivity stats, a little graph by his bedside that the Action Chiefs monitor. Gets five hours sleep (if he’s lucky) and repeats.

It’s exhilarating. It’s exhausting.

On the fifth night, Sandra McCoy, a girl in his platoon, has a breakdown, making it impossible to sleep through muffled sobs into bunk pillows. Jared doesn’t blame her, though. One week in and they’re already running on fumes. (Paint fumes from refinishing Corridor B on lower deck, to be exact.)

Now, a week into training, Jared’s become more accustomed to the intense workload, the regimented schedule, the constant running around and getting yelled at. Lieutenant-Commander Davis’ voice is just a drone in his ears at this point. You learn to tune it out and meditate to white noise, go all fuzzy and foggy like a robot. It’s survival. But the fate of the planet depends on him. He won’t let them down.

He won’t let _him_ down.

~~~

The second week, their course instructors rotate. So Jared is thrown for a loop when he enters his classroom on Monday morning to see Commander Jensen Ackles at the whiteboard. He takes a seat two rows back, close enough to observe his instructor, but not close enough to draw attention. Chad always busts his balls for sitting in the front row.

“Morning deckies.”

“ _Morning Commander Ackles_.”

Jensen flicks his eyes around the room and Jared’s heart sinks when they skip right over him. Like he’s invisible.

“By now you’ve got a pretty good idea about the rules and regulations of the vessel _Freewinds_. We run a tight ship here. So, this week, I’m going to familiarize you with how your training will go here at Sea Org and the practicalities of giving yourselves over in service of the Church.”

There are scratches of pen to paper. Jared’s usually an expert notetaker. But he finds Jensen too distracting to be a good student. So he just opens his ears and wills himself to hang on every word.

“You’ll be onboard here for six months. Six months of physical exertion, auditing and Sec Checks, theories of _Dianetics_ and practical applications of Hubbard’s teachings. We will travel through the Pacific Ocean — stopping to dock at various Caribbean islands to refuel and disseminate the benevolent message of Scientology to inhabitants foreign and familiar.”

Jared zones out. Daydreams of sandy beaches and gentle breezes, the wisp of cropped hair and sun-kissed freckles. Of saving the world, side-by-side with superheroes. Of delivering the good word. Helping people.

Some time later, Chad elbows him in the ribs to knock him out of his stupor. He shoves a stack of papers into Jared’s hands, nods for him to pass them along.

“These are your Life History reports,” says Jensen, raising his eyebrow. “I expect them to be completed and returned to me at morning muster tomorrow.” His eyes, green and gleaming, _finally_ meet Jared’s when he adds, “Be _thorough_.”

Jared nods, his fingers clutching at the stack of paper like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

When class ends, Jensen leaves the lower deck classroom without another word. And as Jared watches him walk away, Chad turns and nudges him, “Jesus, Mr. Hollywood, eh? Think he’s related to Rob Lowe?”

Jared shrugs him off. Jensen Ackles is way prettier than _that_ asshole.

~~~

Later that night, after a two-hour grilling by Lieutenant-Commander Davis for his Aptitude test, Jared makes his way to the library and finds a seat at one of the empty tables. There are a few other recruits scattered around the room, studying and trying to stay awake. Jared slaps himself on the cheek a few times to keep from drifting. It’s late and he’s exhausted, but he’s still got work to do. He digs out his blank Life History report.

_LIFE HISTORY QUESTIONS_

_NOTE: This life history must be written clearly and abbreviations must be avoided._

He rubs his eyes and flips open the report, blinking as he thumbs through the pages. There are more than 100 questions in Part 1 alone and his eyelids are already drooping. At first glance, he can see that the report is invasive, but he knows the Action Chiefs need to know their recruits are trustworthy — that there are no Potential Trouble Sources (PTS) among them. So he grits his teeth and begins wading through each question, trying not to long for the days when a six foot something would sit across from him, eyes shifting between the e-Meter and his own, to ask him these types of things. Every question Jared reads seems to manifest as Jensen’s voice. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe it’s muscle memory.

Maybe he just _misses_ him.

_PART 1:_

_(When the answer is affirmative to any of the questions below, you are to include time, place, form, and event.)_

He breezes through the questions about whether he’s been admitted to psychiatric wards or mental hospitals, whether anyone in his family has hostility against the Church, whether he’s ever been on LSD or Angel Dust. So far, he’s passing with flying colours. One hundred questions and one hundred hurried answers later, he moves on to Part II and III. Perhaps he’s just getting more tired, but the questions seem to get more personal as the report goes on.

_PART III — #5:_ _MEDICAL HISTORY_.

_Give a general 2D history for yourself, including your earliest sexual experiences of any kind, when you started dating, and the names of all persons involved. Make a chronological list by month and year of the names of all persons with whom you have had sexual relationships and what you engaged in. Approximate the number of times you carried on any kind of activity, and note any perversions you engaged in. Who? What? How often? Be as complete as you can._

Jared’s belly stirs with embarrassment and _something else_ as he reads and then rereads the question. His cheeks and neck heat up and he squirms in his seat, glancing around to the remaining recruits, who are filling out their own forms and giving no indication that anything’s out of the ordinary.

He returns his gaze to the page and takes a deep breath. For an eighteen year old, Jared isn’t promiscuous. Yes, he’s kissed girls on dares and let them fondle him on occasion, but he’s never really taken a genuine interest in anyone other than his favourite movie stars. More recently, he’s been preoccupied with the thoughts that seem to bounce around inside his own head, the ones that make his skin itch. The ones he’s not supposed to have, but the ones that seem to invade his mind the most. Funny how that works.

After thinking for a moment, running back through his three kisses, one messy hand job, and more masturbations he’s willing to admit, he puts pencil to paper. He presses gently, giving it care and intention, for he knows Jensen Ackles will certainly be reading his response — that he’ll be analyzing and memorizing it like everything else in Jared’s world. The thought of it makes Jared ache, so he presses his palm to his cock under the table to get some relief. He writes:

_You know that song by the Divinyls? “When I think about you, I touch myself…” I think about that song a lot. Sometimes, when I feel alone at night, I think about things. Things I want to do to people. Things I want done to me. I’m trying to stop. I know it’s wrong._

When he’s finished rambling, he moves on to question six, cheeks flushed pink and about to get pinker:

_6\. Note any instances of homosexual activity from earliest time up to PT. Give who. What done? And how often?_

Jared breathes deep. He knows Jensen will see this. Knows he’ll be looking for discrepancies, for clues, and for irregularities. So Jared is honest, writes a simple:

_None._

Stares at the period dot. It’s so final, he thinks. So finite and closed off. Leaves no room for interpretation — for fantasy and possibility. His fingers tremble and his cock twitches, hard in his pants, as he returns his pencil to the page and adds two more inscrutable dots to his reply:

_None…_

Can’t help but stifle a shuddery breath as he stares at the unfinished sentence, open-ended and incomplete, knowing Jensen’s eyes will surely pause on it, run his fingertips over the dots, feeling each indentation, each pointed press of the page, marking it up.

Jared’s hot under the collar now, so he stuffs his almost finished report into his bag and slinks off through passageways back to his quarters, hiding his sin with a textbook.

But he can’t sleep. Not yet. There are thoughts twisting and turning in his head, of stripped-bare Sea Org men and breath-shudders. Painted pictures on his eyelids of soldiers on all fours, low and needy, and a flash of green eyes over broad shoulders. He’s too tired to touch himself, not properly, but he rolls over and cups himself in his hand, squeezing a little to alleviate the need.

At last, he drifts to sleep, dots floating around his brain and pencil-presses on his heart.


	10. The Billion Year Contract

On the eighth day of training, Jared’s heart does a somersault when it’s Commander Ackles’ turn running deckie drill. He hadn’t exactly expected to see Jensen down on lower deck yet — he’s been beginning to get used to distant glances in the mess hall, or spotting him with other Action Chiefs while polishing the upper deck binoculars. If he’d known Jensen would show up on lower deck this afternoon, ready to whip them into shape, Jared might have taken a look in mirror to make sure his hair isn’t sticking up all over the place. He licks his sweaty palms and does his best to flatten it down, but there’s really no use. He resigns himself to presenting hot and sweaty. It’s difficult when Jensen looks like a movie star.

“Fifty pushups, let’s go.”

The deck squad gets down and begins their chant-count: _One-two-three-four…_ Jared’s muscles burn with fatigue. Yesterday, he’d done upwards of six hundred pushups and his muscles are torn and tattered. But Jared doesn’t care about the pain. Not today. Because as long as Jensen’s eyes are on him, he’ll do a million pushups; he’ll do them till his arms fall off.

Time stands still as they work through a fitness routine: pushups, sit-ups, planks, balance, squats, deadlifts. Jared’s dripping with sweat when Jensen calls for another round of fifty pushups, a test of strength and mental resilience if there ever is one. Jared bends down, repositioning himself, arms shaking and burning as he starts the count again: _one-two-three-four_ … The sun’s beating down and sweat is stinging his eyes. But he’s not too blind to see Jensen is watching him, closely, a curious look in his eye. Jared bites his lip and focuses on his breathing, _in and out and please come closer_.

Thirty seconds, twenty-eight pushups, and one inhale of spiced mint later, Jensen’s squatting at his side, so close it’s making Jared’s elbows wobble. He nearly collapses into a puddle of goo when a soothing hand presses on the small of his back through his sweat-soaked shirt.

“Tighten up that abdomen,” coos Jensen, pressing his other palm flat to Jared’s belly. He’s close enough now that Jared can feel breath ghost the back of his neck. He’s gone rubber-boned, forgets how many pushups he’s got left. All he knows is he’s dying to keep those hands on him.

Jared tightens his stomach muscles, holds his position in a plank and cants his hips forward slightly, just enough to make Jensen’s hands slide a little. Glances at green eyes over his shoulder. “Like that?”

“Just like that. Good.” Jensen’s hands press deeper, fingertips sliding down his shirt, teasing over the bare strip of skin at the small of his back. His fingers slip with sweat and they linger, trailing just above the curve until he runs out of skin, stands back up, and moves on, leaving Jared in a tizzy. It’s been _weeks_ since he’s last jerked off and he’s feeling warm and full from the touch.

Thankfully, Jensen calls off the drill soon after and gives them a minute’s rest before getting back into formation. It’s a long enough distraction for Jared to lose the insistent swelling between his legs. He sighs. Tonight, he knows he’ll crawl into bed and be too exhausted to do anything about it, his _urges_. He’ll close his eyes and dream of an invisible hand that’ll pull at him till he spills. And as he drifts off, he’ll grapple with one life history question that’s been on his mind since this whole mess started:

How can he clear the planet when he feels so unclean?

~~~

A few mornings later, after chores are completed, the new recruits suit up in their freshly pressed Sea Org uniforms and make their way down to the main lecture hall. There are long tables and chairs set out with a small stack of papers at each station. Jared’s heart hitches — the Billion Year Contract. The Action Chiefs line the front of the room as the new recruits file in. Jared chooses a seat near the edge of one of the rows, on the far side of the room where Jensen is stationed. Anything to be closer. He’s drawn to him like a magnet.

Everyone’s anticipating, on edge. Ready to sign their lives over to an organization they wholeheartedly believe in. That they’ll do anything to protect. To honour. A moment later, Jensen moves to the front of the room.

“Today you become official Sea Org members. By making the everlasting commitment to the Church, you are pledging to help in our mission to clear this planet. Many are called. Few are chosen. _You_ represent those few that will lead booming continents to the Highest Evers.”

Like the rest of the room, Jared is awestruck. He’s been building toward this moment for years. After signing, Jared will finally have a purpose, a goal. At last, he’ll be continuing the legacy of their fearless leader, L. Ron Hubbard. Reaching across the sky and up towards the stars.

“You will now read through your Sea Org contracts and pledge your unwavering commitment to Scientology’s mission to clear the planet,” says Jensen. “Please take a few minutes to read over your contract. I will instruct you on when to sign.”

Jared’s fingers tremble as he opens the contract and begins to read. He’s so nervous and excited that he has to re-read the first few sentences twice, just to make sure he understands. It’s a lot of preamble about the importance of being part of a fraternal organization, the oldest one in organized religious history. He reads and reads, passing mission statement after mission statement, clause after clause, until at last he reaches the end. The important part:

_I DO HEREBY AGREE to enter into employment with the SEA ORGANIZATION and, being of sound mind, do fully realize and agree to abide by its purpose which is to get ETHICS IN on this PLANET AND THE UNIVERSE and, fully and without reservation, subscribe to the discipline, mores and conditions of this group and pledge to abide by them._

_THEREFORE, I CONTRACT MYSELF TO THE SEA ORGANIZATION FOR THE NEXT BILLION YEARS._

Jared reads those last two paragraphs over and over until the time is up, not for lack of understanding, but for the immense honour of being chosen to embark upon this journey. He’d been waiting lifetimes for this moment.

“Is everyone finished reading and ready to sign?” says Jensen, after ample time has passed.

“ _Yes, sir_ ,” says the crowd in unison.

“Alright then, please pick up your pens and sign your Billion Year contract.”

A flurry of movement and the furious scratching of pens on paper breaks the silence. There are murmurs and titters of excitement. Jared’s hand shakes with purpose when he puts pen to paper, making looping, majestic letters that he deems worthy of the contract he’s writing on. After the final “I” he looks down at the paper and blinks:

_Jared T. Padalecki_

That’s him. That’s his _name_. He’s part of this now. It’s official.

He looks up to see Jensen staring right at him, smiling proudly. Jared’s heart skips a beat — he’s never felt so damn happy in his life.

“Congratulations,” says Jensen, addressing the room, his usual seriousness faltering. His eyes flash to Jared. “And welcome to the Sea Org.”

The room drowns in an uproar of whoops and hollers; of recruits bounding upwards and hand-shaking and hugging. It’s a beautiful thing and Jared’s absolutely lost in it. He snaps out of his stupor when two hands, Chad’s, clap him on the shoulder and shake him up. He stands, wobbly-legged, and revels with the rest of his classmates, occasionally flicking his eyes toward his Action Chief. Those green eyes give him butterflies.

A minute later, once the room settles again, Jensen clears his throat to make a final announcement:

“Before you run to afternoon classes, on behalf of the upper-ranks, we invite you to join us for an official “Welcome Aboard” celebration tonight.” Excited murmurs punctuate the silence. “Please don your formal Sea Org uniforms and report to the Banquet Hall at 20h00. Do not be late. Dismissed.”

The recruits salute and make their way out of the lecture hall, tittering about tonight’s banquet, how after fourteen days they finally get a night off. Jared lingers behind, fiddling with his shoe-laces and fake-searching for his pen cap, as Jensen moves along the rows collecting the official contracts. Once he reaches Jared’s seat, Jensen catches eyes with him and murmurs:

“See you tonight, soldier?”

Jared’s belly flips. It feels like he’s high on speed or something, so all he manages to stammer out is a stupid-sounding, “Yeah, definitely.”

Jensen picks up his signed contract, shuffles the papers around before cracking a flirtatious smile. “Bet you’ll clean up good in white.”

He bats his eyelashes and walks away, leaving Jared weak at the knees. He counts his lucky stars he’s already pressed all the wrinkles out.


	11. The Banquet

Jared’s been completely out of sorts all day. Twice, he’s tripped over the top step of the lower deck while running drill. He completely missed lunch because he’d lost track of time while reading _Dianetics_. He’s even scrubbed and re-scrubbed the same walls in the third deck bathroom, he’s so anxious with anticipation for tonight’s banquet.

It’ll be a converging of pivotal moments, the most significant in his life — not only will it be his official induction into the Sea Org and the first time he dons his formal uniform, there’s a part of him that knows tonight will force him to reconcile his dedication to the Church with his unyielding feelings for Jensen Ackles. This thing between them’s been building for weeks and, although it’s gone thus far unspoken, Jared can no longer deny the feelings that’ve been simmering under his skin since their first audit together. All afternoon, his mind keeps wandering to images of himself in his Sea Org uniform looking across the room and seeing Jensen, beaming with pride and wonder and desire. He pictures their eyes locking, pulling towards each other as if magnetized. They meet in the middle of the crowded room, just to _look_ at each other, just to get lost in the moment and let the partygoers dissolve until it’s just the two of them. This is the fever dream that consumes Jared’s thoughts all afternoon and so when it comes time to don his official uniform, it already feels too familiar, too real, as though the night has already taken place and played out exactly the way Jared had foreseen. Like it’s inevitable somehow.

Like _they_ are inevitable.

So it’s with great purpose (and even greater _déjà vu_ ) that he arrives at the induction celebration with his bunkmates at precisely 19h55, just minutes ahead of schedule. The ballroom is decorated in lavish style, with hanging garments and giant portraits of LRH adorning the walls, a gorgeous series of chandeliers on the ceiling (like twinkling stars) and a four person band on the elevated stage, playing swanky instrumentals and hits from the Scientology catalogue. It’s one of the most spectacular events Jared has ever witnessed.

After a few announcements and words of welcome from Commander Patrick, the party dissolves into mingling, drinking, and dancing; a rare night of celebration for high-ranking Scientologists. Jared scans the room for his Action Chief, but can’t yet spot him amidst the throng of Commanders, Lieutenants, Petty Officers, and Seamen, being waited-on hand and foot by men with trays of _hors d’oeuvres_ and expensive champagne. Jared refuses all of it, the food and the drink, for he already feels full and intoxicated, his belly jittering with nervous energy. Instead, he mills about the room, floating from group to group, half-listening as his classmates and bunkmates and Junior Officers imbibe and tell tales of their most fantastic achievements, their hopes and dreams for the future.

If they only knew Jared has no interest in such things.

After a few minutes of listening to Junior Officer Welling ramble on about his latest spiritual enlightenment, Jared retreats towards the back corner of the room and watches the band play, adjusting his uniform and feeling empty, like something is missing from what should be the greatest night of his life.

Out of nowhere, Jensen Ackles appears and nearly knocks the breath out of him. He sidles up beside Jared holding two champagne glasses. He hands one to Jared. “Just for tonight,” he says, a twinkle in his eye. “Besides, no such thing as underage drinking in international waters.”

Jared grins, blushing as he accepts it, for Jensen is _oh so_ beautiful. He takes a sip, letting the alcohol burn on his tongue before swallowing. It’s funny, he’s been replaying this moment in his head all day — what he’ll say, how he’ll flirt and make his feelings known somehow — but now he feels completely immobilized. He’s got no words for the living and breathing Hellenic statue standing beside him, hand-crafted from clay and ivory. Still, for a quiet moment, the two of them just _exist_ there together, watching the band like everything’s easy. Like they’ve done this a thousand times before.

After a moment, Jensen unquiets. “Beautiful, isn’t it? All this?”

Jared watches as Jensen gazes around the room, his green eyes moving from the drawings to the chandeliers. Taking it all in. “Yes, it is,” he blinks. The few sips of alcohol are like a catalyst in his bloodstream, making him lusty-eyed and woozy. Or maybe it’s something like love.

Jensen catches his eye and smiles, takes a drink of champagne. It’s an easy kind of company, the two of them, like their wordlessness is a language in itself, transmitting between them on little vibrating strings, invisible to others, but palpable and real. With his combat boots on and a straight spine, he’s just slightly taller than Jensen.

As an upbeat song transitions into a slower, more intimate waltz, the distance between the two of them closes somehow. Jared nearly jumps when the sleeve of Jensen’s uniform brushes against his own. There are couples, male and female, breaking out onto the dance floor. Although intimate fraternizing is strictly forbidden between Sea Org members, the Action Chiefs seem to be allowing it, if only for one night.

“So,” says Jensen, glancing from the couples to Jared to the ground like he’s nervous or something, “do you dance?”

“No,” Jared grins, boyish confidence and charisma in his cheekbones. He takes another sip of champagne. It makes him daring. “But if I did, would you ask me to?”

Jensen exhales a laugh, all breathy and laid-bare. The tips of his ears go pink and Jared can’t believe he’s getting the chance to see all of this — that Jensen’s _shy_. “I don’t…” He trails off and shakes his head, staring at his shuffling feet. “I don’t know.” He glances back up at the slow dancing couples. “I mean, even if I wanted … it’s not like we could.”

“No, we couldn’t,” Jared agrees. He gazes at the profile of Jensen’s face, catching blue and yellow and green light off the disco machine and, it strikes him — it’s the first time Jared considers that the _real_ Jensen might be just as nervous, just as inexperienced and inept at this, whatever _this_ is between them. And, like an adrenaline shot to the heart, it gives him great courage. “But just so you know… If we could, I would say yes.”

He blinks, watching as Jensen takes a breath, his shoulders rising and chest hitching in a way that goddamn near breaks Jared’s heart. Watches as Jensen turns to him at last and looks, _really_ looks, longing and purposeful, into his eyes. And everything unspoken presents itself in the fibres between them, wordless and frail.

_Jared, will you?_

And the soft relief of acceptance.

_I thought you’d never ask._

They stare at each other for another long moment, connected by so much more than the elbow graze of military sleeves. Jared turns toward the dance floor and closes his eyes, letting the image unfold in his mind — he and Jensen, face to face, closer than they’d ever been before, Jared’s arm around his neck and leaning in, ear to ear, cheek to cheek. It’s heaven, it’s bliss, and it’s _real_ somehow.

“Excuse me, sir, but can I steal Jared away for a song?”

Jared’s eyes flutter open to see his fellow recruit Erica Durance standing beside him all pretty-eyed and professional. It’s a second before Jared catches on that she’s asking him to dance. “Oh, I don’t really —“

“Come on, Padalecki,” says Jensen, his jaw set as he takes the champagne glass from Jared’s hand. “Don’t leave the girl waiting.”

There’s a quiet, but ever-present, sadness in Jensen’s eye, darkening at the edges. Snapshots of the spell breaking and wisps of moment-now-memory dissolving into thin air. But Jared knows he’s trapped and Erica has had her hand held out for much longer than socially acceptable, so he relents. “Alright, just one.”

Erica giggles as she drags Jared out to the dance floor and it feels like he’s being taken further and further away from the light, from where he wants—where he _needs_ —to be. Everything’s in slow-motion as she pulls him into a cordial slow dance, and as he gazes over her shoulder, all he can see is Jensen, watching and waiting, and it hurts Jared’s heart like there’s a fist clenched around it. They start to move in a slow circle, Jared staring at Jensen the whole time, lamenting the loss of their secret language, the unsaid vibrations between them feeling more intimate than any dance with Erica Durance ever could. They’re spinning now, and Jared holds on Jensen’s gaze for as long as he can without craning his neck. When he turns around again, a deep pit settles in his stomach when he sees two empty champagne glasses on the table.

Jensen is gone.

It feels like a loss, like his heart is being wrenched from him and splattered across the banquet hall. And, when the dance finishes, he scans the crowd for his green-eyed Action Chief, but can’t find him anywhere.

“Jared, come on, we’re gonna spike the punch.”

Chad elbows him towards the buffet, but Jared can’t hardly discern what he’s saying because the panic and weight of losing the moment with Jensen is setting in. And although his brain is trying its best to convince himself there will be other chances, other meetings, other opportunities… deep down he feels the immense urgency of tonight — the now or never that clings to the air, the crippling fear that all of the magic will be gone when the sun rises over the Pacific.

“I’ll be right there,” says Jared, in a daze. Because he has no intention of spiking the punch bowl. Because his feet are magnetized, pulling him toward the nearest exit and into the darkened corridor, marching with purpose, with direction, towards the upper decks.

In the span of a few minutes, he’s drifted from the glittering chaos of the party, through the oppressive quiet of the ship’s interior passageways, and onto the deck, where the white noise of rushing water makes him hazy. It’s dark, the stars twinkling in the sky, and he’s alone as he makes his way toward the bow of the ship. His heart pounds as he nears his destination, the little hidden space at the front of the ship, the one that looks over the entire world, lets you hide there.

Jared’s only paused there once, but he knows it well. Knows he won’t be alone. Can feel the hum in his bones.

The ship keens and soothes as he steps slowly, nearing the bend that yields to the private platform. He trails his trembling fingers along the bulkhead, anticipating who he’ll find if he just pushes a little further. Rounds the corner and loses his breath because _there he is_ — bathed in beautiful, moonlit glory.

Jensen Ackles is resting against the rail, gazing out over the gorgeous churn of the ocean. It’s only a moment’s pause, however, before he feels his presence; before Jensen turns and gazes at his apprentice with awe and wonder. Like it’s all a fever dream.

“You’re here,” he says, a whisper on the wind. “You came.”

The universe shrinks as Jared steps across the deck, the dark of night blurring around him save for the one haloed outline in white — broad shoulders, brawny, yet boyish, somehow. Jared should really be afraid, should be crazy for doing this. But with each step the courage washes over him like a tsunami, because there’s nothing that can stop this tidal force, crushing them together like rock-salt.

Jared’s finally found his sea legs.

“Of course I did,” he blinks, inching closer. “I would do anything you asked.”

Jensen exhales, breathless. He’s beautiful and soft and looks so much younger in the moonlight, piercing green eyes turned puppy-dog grey. He can relax here in the dark, with nothing but the moon and the sea to witness their midnight meeting. Whispers, “Surely you don’t mean it…”

His breath smells like sweet mint. It’s intoxicating.

“Oh, but I do,” says Jared, soft and reaching out for Jensen’s fingertips. Grazes them before leaning in, heart beating like the thrum of the ocean. They’re so close now. And Jared’s pressing in, nearer, nearer, until the tips of their noses touch. “Jensen, I mean it…”

He leans in and kisses those perfect lips, soft and full and sweet like peach-skin. He’s dizzy and it’s everything he’s ever wanted. More so. Because Jensen is kissing him back, melting into him like he’s been carrying the weight of their embrace for months.

Things turn lustful in the dark as they open up to each other, Jared’s tongue caressing Jensen’s, breathing each other in, their love, their _want_. Hands roaming, clutching, caressing. It’s ecstasy.

They break apart to catch their breaths, hands grasping at cheeks and necks and hair. Jensen’s eyes are hazy with lust. He flutters his eyelashes and whispers, “God damn, I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.”

Jared shudders, hard and needy in pleated pants. “Me too.”

Jensen presses forward, his fingers threading through the soft hair at the back of Jared’s neck, pulling him in and kissing him soft and _deep_ , trying to get closer, _inside_. And Jared lets him. Hums and moans as Jensen invades him, laving his tongue around his lips, teeth, and mouth in ways that make his belly flutter. Jared keens forward, shuddering as his swollen cock presses against the outline of Jensen’s own. He’s never done this before. Never felt another man hard for him. His knees nearly buckle at the slide of them together — of knowing that Jensen wants him too. That he’s _desired_. He can _feel_ it.

“Want you,” says Jared, humming against Jensen’s lips between kisses. He’s gone slack and stupid, under a love spell and it’s only growing stronger and —

_BWAAAAAAMP._

With a deafening blast, the ship’s horn wrenches them back to reality.

“The curfew bell,” says Jensen, breathing pretty in the inch of space between their lips. The tremble in each other’s arms, every second stretching on for infinity and ending much too soon.

Jared whines into Jensen’s mouth, pressing teethmarks to his bottom lip. “Don’t go…”

“Have to.” Jensen shuts his eyes and touches his forehead to Jared’s, nuzzling him before planting a kiss right next to his nose. “So do you, soldier.”

Jared melts into the touch, being nestled and caressed and adorned with salt-stained kisses. But he knows Jensen is right. That their blissful night ends here. That they have no choice but to return to their respective rooms and fall into line.

With the reverberation of the ship’s horn thrumming in their veins, they kiss one more time and then separate, readjusting uniforms, straightening up.

“Goodnight, Jared.”

“Goodnight.”

They part ways. Jared falls asleep easy that night, the smell of salt in his hair and the taste of want on his tongue.


	12. The Note

“Look lively, Padalecki!”

It’s the second time this morning he’s gone and fucked up a drill. This time, it’s missing the ‘ _At Ease!’_ command. He can’t help it though, he was so preoccupied with the events of last night. Of love boats and ocean breezes. Kisses and caresses. He’s been daydreaming about Jensen Ackles all day, about his lips and the way they seem to slot in so smoothly with his own. When he closes his eyes, he can almost taste the salt spray on his lips, feel the warmth of Jensen’s hands on his cheek, hear his breathy exhale and the relief in his voice when Jared had come to meet him.

“I’m not gonna tell you again, Padalecki!”

Lieutenant-Commander Davis is busting his balls today, but even Jared can admit it’s not entirely unwarranted. It’s difficult to focus on stepping lively and standing at attention when his entire world has shifted, rocking the very foundations upon which he’s been standing. As if he’s been caught adrift, tossed and churned in the ocean wake. Like he’ll never land on solid ground again.

Jensen is conspicuously absent from the decks today. Jared looks for him at breakfast, at morning muster, during drill, during lunch, in between classes and even as he’s spit-shining all the shoes in the laundry. As the day progress, his absence stirs like panic in Jared’s belly, but he figures he’s just overreacting — that he’s suffering from love sickness and heartache and yearning, feelings he’s never known until now; until he’d been forced to confront them on the beautiful bow of the ship, under the stars.

It doesn’t even phase him when Sandy McCoy breaks down into tears halfway through afternoon drill. In fact, the incident gives Jared a much-needed distraction from his own fuck-ups. As a bunkmate, Sandy’s been increasingly on edge these days. But, in true Scientology fashion, everyone knows better than to ask questions — that it’s best Sandy tends to her transgressions during official audits.

For this afternoon’s training, the new recruits are paired off to practice “going exterior” — sitting across from each other, eyes closed, confronting your partner with any and all MEST (Matter, Energy, Space, Time) disruptions they can conjure up. Usually that involves screaming at the person or making funny faces over and over again until it produces no reaction at all.

Jared’s having a hard time going exterior today. He’s searching for transcendence, to leave his body, but as far as he’s concerned, there isn’t much more by way of euphoria than last night — his lips on Jensen’s, touching him, tasting him, wanting him.

~~~

The next day, he’s not much better off. Jensen’s re-emerged, standing at the front of the classroom and giving a lecture in Dianetics II. But his presence seems to throw Jared even _more_ off-kilter. Because from his front row seat, Jared thinks he can just make out his own teethmarks, imprinted into Jensen’s bottom lip. He’s got a hard-on hidden under his desk and he’s hen-scratching at his notepaper absentmindedly.

“Dude, _quit_.”

Jared snaps out of his sex-haze stupor when Chad nudges him. He’s been unknowingly tapping his pencil eraser on the desk for a full minute now, pissing off the entire front row.

“Sorry,” he whispers, blushing pink. Glances up to find that Jensen is staring at him with those bright green eyes. It nearly kills him when Jensen flashes a half-grin at him then ducks his head to shake it.

Jared could just melt, die, perish. But he can’t. He’s got a whole chapter on Flubless Auditing to get through. But there’s a war waging inside of him, a war between his head and his heart. For his head is on the path to becoming clear. His heart, however, has gone off the rails, making him yearn, not for more knowledge, nor devotion to LRH, but for soft pink kisses in the moonlight. For the scrape and brush of beard-stubble; the taste of mint and euphoria. Just being in the same room as Jensen isn’t enough anymore. Not now that he knows what his lips taste like.

So when the bell rings signalling the end of class, his blood sings when he hears _that_ voice:

“Jared, stay behind for a moment, please.”

He waits, butterflies in his belly, while the rest of his classmates file out and onto their next course, throwing pity-filled glances at the left-behind deckie. If they only knew how much Jared craves getting into this sort of trouble.

Books in hand, he hovers up to Jensen’s desk. They both hem-haw and stall until the last of the heel-draggers disappear, both knowing they only have a minute or two before the next crop of recruits enters the room.

The careful mask on Jensen’s face dissolves and, in an instant, his skin brightens with blush. He laughs, nervous. “I don’t really have a good reason to keep you behind,” he says, scratching at the back of his head. “I’m not sure why I —“

“Yes, you are,” grins Jared. “You wanted to see me again.”

Jensen blinks, caught off guard by Jared’s bluntness. He’s not exactly used to being call out like this. Not by students. Not by another guy. He stammers, “So, how’ve you, um, been?”

“Terrible,” says Jared, a flirty smile on his face. It’s _easy_ with Jensen. “Haven’t been sleeping well. You?”

Jensen blinks and, at last, his eyes meets Jared’s. Shuffles a little, then smiles. “No. But when I do, I have really good dreams.”

In the future, when Jared thinks about it, really does a close analysis, he’ll determine that this is the precise moment when Jared falls head over heels. For now, he settles for the pleasant lurch of his belly and the fact that his heart has suddenly grown wings.

He leans forward and scratches his thumbnail on Jensen’s desk. “I wish there was a banquet every night.”

Jensen smiles. “If there was, the other night wouldn’t be as special.”

He reaches out to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind Jared’s ear, but catches himself in midair. He withdraws his hand and lets it fall to the desk, pressing fingers into the wood just inches from where Jared’s thumb rests.

“It’d still be special,” says Jared, quietly. He floats his thumb further along the desk until it touches Jensen’s finger, presses and drags it along, skin to skin. It’s a fraction of the contact Jared wishes they could have — he wishes he could pull Jensen in, run his hands along his curves and edges, kiss his mouth and drown in it — but for now it’s all they can do as _aberrations_.

There’s an electric _zing_ between them before they both catch eyes; before they’re forced to acknowledge the elephant in the room — that this can never happen. That as long as they’re committed to the Church, as long as they’re different ranks and both men for the Cause (and both _men_ , period), that they can never work. That they’ll never be accepted.

Doesn’t mean they can’t dream, though. Doesn’t make the overwhelming desire to fall into Jensen’s arms and curl up there forever any less real.

The spell is broken when they hear shuffling outside the classroom. Jensen pulls his fingertips from underneath Jared’s just in time for a new stream of recruits to enter the classroom.

Jensen clears his throat. “Better get a move on. You’re late.”

There’s a sadness in Jensen’s eyes, like he’s in pain. And Jared wants so badly to soothe him, but there are people watching. There are always people watching. He lowers his voice and leans in. “When will I see you again?”

The lump in Jensen’s throat bobs, like he’s trying to swallow down emotion. It’s impossible, however, when there’s a prettyboy like Jared standing in front of him, offering him the world. Jensen blinks a few times, dazed and drowsy, before moving behind his desk and hastily scribbling on a pad of pink notepaper.

The second bell rings.

“Here,” says Jensen, ripping the page free and slipping it into Jared’s hand. “Give this to Lieutenant-Commander Davis so you won’t get a _chit_.”

Their hands brush and their eyes meet and Jared relishes the last vestiges of touch before Jensen lets go and retreats back into Commander mode.

Jared closes his hand around the tardy slip and leaves the room, feeling heavy in the heart. Once the door shuts behind him and he’s alone in the passageway, Jared opens his palm and flattens out the note.

 _Two notes_.

One is, as Jensen promised, a note for LCDR Davis to excuse his tardiness. The other, which Jared presses open with trembling fingertips, is meant for him and him alone. His heart races as he reads:

_Tomorrow. 9pm. Meet me at Kaya Grandi 1._

They’re going ashore at last.

Jared can’t wait to stand on solid ground again.


	13. The Cuba Compagnie

It’s a beautiful day in the Caribbean Sea when the _Freewinds_ docks at a port on the island of Bonaire. They’ll be spending the day in Kralendijk, gathering supplies and refuelling, and everyone is looking forward to leaving the ship for shore leave. The Action Chiefs have organized some optional (but not really optional) drills off-ship, so when Jared debarks he joins his fellow recruits (except Sandy McCoy, who’s staying aboard) on Bonaire beach.

They jog in ankle-deep sand for a few hours until at last Lieutenant-Commander Davis blows the whistle. Jared collapses in lukewarm ocean water and lets the waves lap at his side. It’s all he can do to distract himself from the crinkled up note he’s got tucked in his pocket — the promise of an after-hours meet up in Kralendijk.

“Did you hear about the plan?”

Jared’s been daydreaming all day, but a pointed elbow to the ribs shakes him out of his spell. Chad murmurs something about _tonight’s plan_ to a group of recruits while cooling off in the Caribbean Sea.

“Direct orders from Lieutenant Robinson,” says Chad, who sounds like he’s taking this very seriously. “Tonight, when the sun goes down, we’re doing a raid.”

“A raid?” balks Tania Saulnier. “What for?”

“For supplies,” says Chad, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “At sundown, we board the _SS Franklin_ and grab as much seaworthy equipment as we can. But we can’t get caught, Lieutenant’s orders.”

There’s a buzz in air. Something about pilfering from others is whipping everyone into a frenzy.

“Jared, you in?”

He squirms, chews over his words, “I’m, er, busy.” He’s lying by omission. Doesn’t want anyone to know he’s got his own plan for the night, his own direct orders.

“Dude, don’t pussy out,” says Chad, punching his shoulder.

“I’m not,” he scoffs, ribbing him back just as hard. “I’ve got an audit to do.” The lie rolls off his tongue just as easy as it’d popped into his head.

No one asks questions.

They return to the ship after an afternoon sojourn into the town, window shopping for souvenirs and trinkets no one can afford. After a cat nap and a quick shower, Jared, under the cover of a shadowy sunset, shuffles off the ship for the second time that day, trying his best to look inconspicuous in jeans and a T-shirt. And although he’s permitted to go ashore as long as he’s back by midnight curfew, something about the scenario — about sneaking away for a meet up — has him shoulder-checking.

He wanders the streets of Kralendijk for awhile, scanning signs and storefronts for the address tucked in his pocket. At last he comes upon _Kaya Grandi 1_ , a little bar on the beachfront, romantic and dimly lit, called _Cuba Compagnie._ He enters the lush beach-garden, where intimate tables and chairs are tucked alongside tropical foliage. There are tea lights and candles illuminating the pathway and Jared’s heart nearly stops when he spots him —

Jensen Ackles sits at a table in the shadows, reading a book with his glasses perched at the end of his nose.

Jared’s never seen him so casual before. He’s wearing a blue button-down shirt, khakis, and… _flip flops_. The sight of him makes Jared smile so wide his cheeks hurt, because Jensen is utterly _gorgeous_ like this. And Jared still can’t believe he’s here — that they’re meeting up. That Jensen _chose_ him.

There’s no such choice for Jared. He’s been tethered to Jensen’s heart from the moment he’d first laid eyes on him.

Jensen looks up as Jared approaches. Smiles brightly, his eyes twinkling, before clearing his throat and tempering his expression. Jensen’s accustomed to wearing a mask, so it’s difficult to cast off. But Jared’s making it easier.

“Hey,” says Jensen, trying (and failing) to act casual. His knee bounces under the table.

“Hi,” says Jared, relishing that pretty shyness Jensen saves only for him. He pulls out a chair and sits down. Smiles. “You look good.”

Jensen blushes. He scratches at his beard stubble, ducking his head a little. He’s not quite ready to say it back yet, so he settles on a shy, “Thanks.”

They’re seated in a secluded area of the patio, at a round table alongside a hedge, practically out of sight. The only other couple near them is sipping coffee and deeply engrossed in conversation in Portuguese, so they pay the two Scientologists no mind.

A waiter comes around the corner and Jensen flags him down. “I’ll have another, please.” He hands the server a crisp bill and turns to Jared. “Drink?”

Jared nods. He feels so _grown up_ with Jensen. “Same thing.”

“Keep the change,” says Jensen. The server nods and smiles before heading away to make their drinks. They’re alone again.

It’s a few moments of listening to the ocean, to cricket chirps and Portuguese Creole, before either of them speak. It’s all so foreign, so fascinating and forbidden, to be together like this.

“Nice place,” says Jared, glancing around. He picks at one of the leaves on the hedge. “Come here often?”

Jensen chuckles, “Nice line.” He drums his fingers on his book. “Actually, it’s my favourite place on the island. Whenever we dock, I come here to read and be alone.”

“How’s that working out for you?” says Jared, nodding to Jensen’s abandoned book with a cheeky grin.

“Not so good,” Jensen chuckles. He pauses then flicks his eyes to Jared. “Okay, maybe a little bit good.”

They catch the sparkle in each other’s eyes. It’s paradise.

Soon, the waiter returns with their drinks, two icy piña coladas. Jared sucks a mouthful through his straw.

“ _Whoa_ ,” he says, gulping down what tastes like pure rum with a pinch of coconut. He flutters his eyelashes. “That’s —“

“Yeah, they make ‘em strong here.”

Jared grins. “You tryna get me drunk?”

“That would be very unethical of me.”

Jared nods, as if in challenge. “It’s only unethical if you plan on auditing me about it…” He pauses to take another sip, considering the can of worms he’s just opened up. “Um, are you? Gonna audit me about this?”

Jensen fidgets with the little umbrella in his drink, flashes his eyes to Jared. “No,” he says, after a moment. “Whatever happens between us on nights like this… I’ll leave it alone. We can pretend like it doesn’t exist.”

Those words should hurt. And in normal circumstances, they would. But they both know they’re in the Church — both know what they’re up against. That their fraternizing is not only frowned upon, but strictly forbidden. There’s silence between them as they contemplate how complicated this thing between them could get.

At last, Jared nods. “Okay.”

It’s a little awkward at first, without e-Meters or _Dianetics_ or Sea Org drills as distractions, but they wade through it, testing the waters. They learn how to act natural around each other — how to have normal conversations instead of questions and answers, how to look at each other like equals. The alcohol helps a little, and with each sip of piña colada, they loosen up and lower their inhibitions; start to speak their minds.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” says Jared, a half cocktail in, head swimming. Jensen rarely talks about himself, so Jared finds himself clawing and scraping for every bit of insight.

“I’m doing my OT VIII level this week…”

“Holy shit,” says Jared, eyes widening. “Are you excited?”

Jensen shrugs. “More anxious than excited, I guess. It’s taken so long to get here and”—he sighs and looks tired all of a sudden—“well, I’m looking forward to finally seeing the materials.”

Jensen’s being way too modest. Because, as well-read Jared is on Scientology, he can still barely grasp the magnitude of becoming an OT VIII. When he looks up the Bridge, the Operating Thetan levels seem so far away it conjures a depressing pit in his stomach. It gives him a sinking feeling like he’d started too late… that there’s not enough time to get there. Like he’ll never make it.

“Wait,” says Jared, it suddenly dawning on him. “Isn’t it Church law for Daniel Killian to personally administer the OT VIII materials?”

“Yes, it is…” Jensen bites his lip. His eyes flash like he’s holding a secret. Then, he relents. “Actually, that’s why we’re at port. Killian is here on the island. He’s coming aboard tomorrow.”

“Daniel Killian is coming aboard?”

Jensen frowns. “Does that interest you?”

“Of _course_ ,” Jared balks, wide-eyed. “This will be the first time I’m on more of an equal footing with him. I’ll be walking where he walks. It’s incredible.” He watches as Jensen purses his lips, nodding curtly. There’s something strange lurking underneath his cool facade. Jared can’t quite pinpoint what it is — he just knows something is wrong. “Should I _not_ be interested?”

Jensen swallows and then turns his frown into a carefully crafted half-smile that might fool someone who isn’t Jared. “No, of course you should be.” He takes a long drag on his cocktail straw and changes the subject. Leans sideways and brushes shoulders with Jared. He pulls up his left sleeve to his elbow. “The day I started reporting to Daniel Killian is the day I got this scar…”

Jared gazes along the smooth, milk-white skin of Jensen’s forearm. His hands itch with the desire to run them along the pretty veins that bulge out, highlighting his taut muscle tissue. Jared’s head spins as Jensen fingers at the lightning-white scar on his forearm. The alcohol gives Jared courage, so he reaches out and brushes the scar with his own fingertips, smoothing around its ridges, the grooves and protrusions. They both shiver.

“How did you get it?” he asks, leaning in even more. His voice drips with honey, heavy and seductive. His face is so close to Jensen’s that all he can see are pretty freckles dotting the bridge of his nose.

Jensen looks him dead in the eye, wrestling with inner demons. He mumbles, faraway and downtrodden, “Oh, I, uh, fell.”

Jared’s too far gone to notice how silly that sounds. Instead, he circles the scar with his fingertips, touching and teasing at Jensen’s soft skin.

At last, Jensen speaks again, his voice low and shaky. “Jared, are you here because I asked you to be?”

The bridge of Jared’s nose crinkles. “Yes, of course.”

Jensen sighs. “No, what I mean is… Are you here because I’m an Action Chief and you’re following orders? Or are you here because…” He trails off, uncertain.

Jared nudges Jensen’s knee with his own under the table. “I’m here because I like you.”

Jensen’s eyes are bright with reassurance. He touches Jared’s knee back and smiles softly into his piña colada. “I’m glad.”

A minute later, between knee-nudges and shimmies-closer, Jared clears his throat. “So, um, have you done this much? Cocktails with cute guys, I mean…”

The tips of Jensen’s ears go pink. “No, I haven’t. There was — there was someone… a long time ago. But we never…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I was always too afraid.”

“Because it’s forbidden?”

“Partly,” he shrugs. “But most of all, I was too afraid to open up. To really let somebody in. To let them see the real me.”

Jared blinks. “And now?”

There’s a spark in the air and a twinkle in Jensen’s eye when he leans sideways, his hand sliding up Jared’s thigh underneath the table. He squeezes it gently, “Do you remember LRH’s birthday party?” When Jared nods, Jensen continues. “Did you know I saw you in the crowd that day?”

Jared blushes. He remembers like it was yesterday. How their eyes had met for an instant through binocular glass. “I saw you too.”

Jensen blinks, his hand rubbing at Jared’s thigh. “It was unreal. I — I looked out into the crowd and my eyes went straight to you. Like it was meant to be or something. Like _we_ were meant to be…” He leans in, warm breath tickling at Jared’s ear, the smell of sweet rum on his tongue. “Jared, I can’t stand it. I wanna taste you…”

Jared’s whole body trembles. They can’t touch, not really, can’t kiss, can’t breathe into each other like they desire. Not here. Jared breathes in the smell of his neck, aftershave lotion and island musk, and hushes, “Let’s go somewhere.”

They abandon their drinks and slip out the back gate of the bar, onto the sandy beach. After tucking their shoes and socks under a grass umbrella, they stumble along the sand, half-dizzy, half-scouring for a private spot, somewhere they can really be alone. Their hands meet several times as they walk side-by-side, fingers dancing and teasing and not quite catching. They’re still testing the waters, pushing and pulling at each other and waiting for the right time. A few steps down the quiet, moonlit beach, they find an abandoned lifeguard hut. Jensen ducks inside, smiling in the moonlight, and tugs Jared in with him.

At first they just embrace — pull each other tight and hold on for dear life. They breathe into each other, nuzzling and kneading and love-tussling like boys. Apprehension quickly yields to lust, however, when Jensen runs his hands through Jared’s hair and just _looks_ at him, gazing and loving until, at last, they meet in the middle, lips connecting — melting into each other like they’d never get enough.

Not in a billion years.

“Jared,” hushes Jensen between kisses, just to say it out loud. To make the moment real and concrete and alive. “ _Jared._ ”

“Jensen,” he whispers back through a smile, thumbs brushing against Jensen’s lips. God, he’s so beautiful, so devastating, so strangely pliant in Jared’s arms. “Wanna kiss you all night.”

“What’s stopping you?” Jensen flirts, planting succulent little kisses along Jared’s lips before taking him in, deep and lusty this time.

“Curfew,” he moans into Jensen’s mouth. “Prolly got a half-hour.”

Jensen pulls back to appraise him. Wraps his arms around Jared’s waist, flirtatious and salacious. “I wonder what we can do in half an hour?”

Jared grins. “I’m open to suggestions.”

They kiss for a few more minutes, both hard and whimper-rubbing against each other like two horny teenagers. Growing up in the Church, neither of them had had what’s considered a “normal” teenaged experience, let alone a _homosexual_ one, so fooling around like this puts them on equal footing. And Jared relishes the idea that he can give this moment to Jensen — that he can be _the one_.

Jensen pulls away, lust and lasciviousness in his eyes. He’s gazing at Jared like he’s some sort of precious thing, like he could disappear into thin air at any moment, like they could run out of time. As far as Jared’s concerned, they would never ever have enough of it.

“Jared, I wanna —“ stutters Jensen. “Can I —“ Jared watches as he asks for something that’s been buried deep for lifetimes. Watches as he pulls it up from the pit of his belly until it spills onto his tongue. “Oh god, I wanna suck you off…”

Jensen clenches his fists at the front of Jared’s shirt and slowly, as if being pushed down by a heavy weight, sinks to his knees, sliding down Jared’s lithe body, inch by inch, kissing messily through clothing until he’s breathing hot and heavy at the bulge in Jared’s pants.

Jared’s never had anyone like this before. Not with such hunger, such desire. Not someone who stares up at him from the ground like this — who willingly worships at his feet as he unfastens his jeans, pulls them down like he pulls Jared’s dick out, the perfect teenage dream, a specimen in honey pink and tan.

Jensen salivates. He’s got a shaky bottom lip he doesn’t quite know what to do with. But he’s got a pretty good idea. “Yes, good boy,” he shivers, sighing dreamily at the sight of Jared’s cock, hard and lengthy like his body. He tongues at the slit of it, catching the salt-tinged want on his tastebuds and the sight of it nearly sends Jared straight to the edge. Jensen licks around the head, careful and beautiful and _savouring_ him. Presses a kiss to the tip with those blowjob lips.

Jared’s seeing stars.

The way Jensen’s fingertips tremble on Jared’s thighs and the whimper noises escaping his virginal mouth, there’s no doubt Jensen’s been hungry for male flesh for far too long. Lifetimes.

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Jared moans when Jensen finally fastens his lips around him and slides on, taking every inch in one devastating mouthful. Feels his cock bump against the back of Jensen’s throat, nudging at those slippery, wet places that make his head spin because it’s too real, _too good_.

“ _Mmmm_ ,” Jensen hums as he pulls back and slides on again, relishing the taste, the feeling of fullness and of _submission_ as he kneels at the boy’s feet, ready to take everything he has to offer, sink into the sandy beach and get washed away.

Jared moves his hands to Jensen’s head, pulling him on and off, taking control of the speed and the depth, fucking Jensen’s pretty mouth like he can’t live without it.

It’s ecstasy. It’s bliss. And it’s over way too soon.

“Jen… oh god, I’m gonna, I’m gonna…”

Jensen moans, _moans_ , at those words and melts under Jared’s careful nudge, letting the boy use his mouth like a fucktoy. And Jared lets himself go, coming so good down Jensen’s eager throat, feeling the salt-slick coat his tongue with forever-memories.

When Jared’s finished, when he’s come down from the most intense orgasm of his life, he runs little fingertip circles in Jensen’s hair, massaging at his scalp as he slides him off. Pets him gentle and pulls him up, up, up until their mouths collide again. Jared can taste his bitter seed on Action Chief tongue.

They kiss, slow and lovely this time, Jared’s hands cradling Jensen’s cheeks like he’s the most precious thing in the world.

Jensen searches Jared’s eyes for validation and, when he finds it, his own soften, tears at their corners. He hushes a silent prayer of, “ _Thank you, thank you, thank you_ ,” into Jared’s neck.

They return to the _Freewinds_ separately, but not before collapsing against each other in the lifeguard hut, holding and caressing and _loving_ on the beaches of Bonaire, where they can be exactly who they’re meant to and so much more than they’ve ever dreamed of.


	14. The Security Check

The next day, the mess hall is abuzz with tales of last night’s shore leave hijinx. Apparently, the boat heist had gone off without a hitch. Chad tells him at muster how several of them had snuck onto a neighbouring vessel just after midnight and snatched up as many supplies as they could manage: heavy-duty ropes, better food rations, toilet paper, deck polish… all the essentials the Church can’t afford. Jared’s lying if he says the heist doesn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth.

Then again, he’s been doing his own sneaking around — on beaches with moonlit eyes and milk-white skin.

“Did you hear about who we picked up in Bonaire?”

Jared’s in the lunchroom eating leftover bread crust when Chad leans across the table, his eyes sparkling like a kid in a candy store.

“ _Daniel Freaking Killian_.”

The lunch table crew buzzes.

“He’s _here_? On board?”

“That’s what I heard…”

“It’s true,” says Chad, vibrating with excitement. “Came aboard last night.”

“Do you think we’ll get to see him?” asks a wide-eyed Erica.

“Dunno,” says Chad, sucking on chicken bones. “But I hear he’ll be looking over our files.”

“Wow,” gushes Tania, getting hot under the collar. “Imagine.”

While the rest of the table chatters with anticipation, Chad turns to Jared. He lowers his voice and scrunches his nose, “Why’re you so quiet? I thought you’d be _jacked_.”

“Oh, yeah, I am,” says Jared, his brows wrinkling at the lie. “Sorry, I’m just distracted.”

“Distracted by what?” Chad’s ears perk up like gossip detectors.

Jared shakes his head. If he really thinks about it, there’d been a moment last night that keeps floating to the surface of his mind; an innocuous Jensen-remark that’s been playing in a brain-loop all morning:

 _The day I started reporting to Daniel Killian is the day I got this scar_.

Hell if he’s going to mention it to Chad, though. “Never mind, it’s nothing.”

Chad grins, waggling his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t call Erica Durance nothing.”

Jared frowns. “What?”

Chad whispers, “Dude, everyone knows,” and when Jared stares at him blankly, he continues. “Come on, everyone saw you two dancing at the banquet. Then both of you are mysteriously late for curfew last night…”

“No, that’s not — there’s nothing between —“

“Alright, I get it, man, you’re _shy_ ,” says Chad, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I’m just saying congratulations. That’s all.”

Jared squishes shrunken peas into his plate, knowing that trying to stop the silly rumour is futile. The more he denies it, the more twinkly Chad’s eyes get. He’s not thrilled with people keeping such close tabs on his whereabouts, but there’s small relief in knowing the suspicion is focused in another direction — on him and some girl he’s never looked twice at.

Erica Durance is _theetie-wheetie_ anyway. Sweet, light, and lacking depth.

If his comrades only knew that Jared’s interests focus much more intently on older, more practiced lovers. Ones with pretty pink lips and moonlit freckles. Jared’s belly swoops just thinking about him. About how good he’d looked on his knees, worshiping Jared like he was his own goddamn religion. He adjusts his pants under the table to hide the swelling.

“At least Erica’s not a skeeze like Sandy,” scoffs Chad, nudging him. Two tables over, Sandy McCoy is crying into her cornflakes.

Jared frowns, feeling a stab of pity for her. She’s been really good at isolating herself lately. “What’s wrong with her?”

“You didn’t hear?” Chad’s busting at the seams. “She’s been sleeping around and finally got herself knocked up.”

Jared blinks in stunned silence. It can’t be true. There’s scarcely enough time to finish all their chores, let alone have sex. And to get _pregnant_ from it, of all things? He shakes his head, watching Sandy slink out of the mess hall under a cloud of gloom. “No way that’s true.”

“I’m telling you, man. I heard it from the father himself…” He gestures to the end of the next table, where Junior Officer Tom Welling is stabbing at mashed potatoes with a fork.

“Welling? No way,” Jared balks, nearly spitting out his lukewarm soda. Welling’s in their platoon. Welling taught him how to tie a Cleat Hitch. Hell, Jared spent seven hours swabbing lower deck with him last week.

Chad shrugs. “Believe me or don’t, man. But you must’ve noticed Sandy got fatter…”

Jared wrinkles his nose. “How’s she gonna have a baby? She’s only seventeen.”

“Won’t be a problem,” Chad shrugs, digging his spoon into the last of his Jell-o. “They already made her _take care_ of it.”

It takes Jared a second to process what that means before his eyes widen. “You don’t mean…”

Chad gets up, piling plates and cutlery on his tray. “You see any babies walking around on this ship?”

Jared’s stomach lurches.

Chad walks away, leaving Jared speechless and feeling immensely sorry for Sandy.

After a minute, he turns back to his mushy peas. Sometimes he feels like his bunkmates’ lives are alien to him. Like somewhere along the way Jared had stumbled onto a different path and now he’s too far gone to turn around.

But he can’t worry about Sandy or Tom too much. He’s got his own preoccupations. Namely, how the hell he’s going to get Jensen alone again.

~~~

The next few days pass like hardened molasses. Most of the Action Chiefs are tied up doing their OT VIII levels with the elusive Killian, so there aren’t many Lieutenant-Commanders to run drill. The deckies spend each morning cleaning to prepare for the white glove test. In the past two days alone, Jared’s breathed so many noxious bleach fumes that the inside of his nose has burned numb. And even with gloves, the tips of his fingers are white enough to make him worry that he’s scoured his prints clean off. For recruits these days, there’s not much more to look forward to than sore muscles and tired bones.

In the afternoons, Jared’s just as bored. The deckies take turns running drill on the lower decks, raising and lowering life boats, doing dead lifts. Even self-governed, they run as hard as they would if there were Action Chiefs around. The only difference is that instead of standing at attention between drills, they stand at ease so Jared can stretch his neck back, turn his face to the sky and let the warm sun bathe him.

They’re strictly forbidden from the upper decks, lest they accidentally glimpse something from OT VIII and give themselves cancer. But standing at ease, Jared can’t help but squint one eye open and look towards the top of the ship, just to see if he can spot Jensen. He never does. Because OT VIII requires absolute focus and dedication. And although he wants Jensen to do well, there’s also a part of him, a secret part, that wonders if Jensen ever pauses to think about _him_. If he ever stands atop the upper deck and glances over the rails, just to see if he can catch Jared, scrubbing and sweeping and sweating.

Doing the grunt-work.

~~~

After four long days of intermittent sleep on a hard bunk bed, of swabbing decks and tables scraps, Jared gets a special assignment from the heavens: a Security Check with Commander Ackles. It’s routine. Regularly scheduled mind maintenance. Except Jared can’t keep his from wandering all day.

At six o’ clock sharp, Jared raps lightly on Audit Room #2 and enters.

 _There he is_. Jensen Ackles, beautiful in ocean blue. He stands in greeting and right away Jared notices a nervous tic: an extra bit of feet-shuffling, knuckle-rapping, _hem-hawing_. Jared’s belly bottoms out. Jensen’s just as nervous, just as anticipatory, as he is.

“Seaman Padalecki,” Jensen nods, curt and professional. He’s in character, playing his role well, but Jared can spot an unmistakable blush on the apples of his cheeks. “Are you ready for your Sec Check?”

“Ready for anything, sir,” Jared nods back, neck heating.

Jensen beckons him to sit down across from him.

Jared complies, his eyes flicking from the shiny e-Meter to the way Jensen readjusts his uniform as he sits, runs a hand through military cropped hair, the same hair that had felt so good on Jared’s fingertips, prickly and soft.

“Okay, Jared, pick up the cans.”

He does. Settles in and readies his reactive mind, watching every blink and twitch as Jensen readies the machine. Jared frowns when he notices a bruise on the Commander’s jaw, ripening purple and blue under a half-hearted touch-up job. It’s fresh. He’s got to remember to ask him about it later.

In present time, Jensen seems almost distracted — half by Jared, half by… something else. Jared wonders if his lack of focus has to do with the OT VIII levels. He’s heard the materials can be quite intense. There are rumours that OT VIII is so difficult to master, so difficult to accept, that even some who have been with the Church their whole lives have been unable to attain the knowledge to process it. Horror stories of Action Chiefs having to restart their training from the bottom of the Bridge are enough to keep Jared up at night. He decides to give Jensen a break, let him get on with the Sec Check and ask questions later.

Jensen puts his glasses on and gazes at the e-Meter, fiddling with knobs and sliders. Clears his throat and gets down to business.

“We are about to begin a Security Check. We are not moralists. We are able to change people. We are not here to condemn them. The only way you can fail this Security Check is to refuse to take the test, to fail to answer its questions truthfully, or if you are here knowingly to injure Scientology. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Jensen nods. “The first questions are nulls to determine your reaction pattern. Here we go. Jared, have you ever drunk water?”

“Yes.”

“Are you holding up a tree?”

“No.”

“Am I an elephant?”

Jared smiles. “No.”

Jensen blinks, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling prettily. He’s trying hard to keep focused, Jared can tell. “Is this a Security Check?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s begin. Jared, have you given me your real name?”

 _Jared Tristan Padalecki_. “Yes.”

“Are you here for a different purpose than you say?”

“No.”

“Have you ever indulged in drunkenness?”

Jared thinks. “When I was sixteen, I got drunk off some wine coolers.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It was a house warming party. A bunch of us were celebrating getting our own apartment. We felt kinda grown up, I guess.”

Jensen narrows his eyes in judgment. “And you think responsible adults indulge in drunkenness?”

“N-no,” says Jared, feeling suddenly like he’s under a microscope, “that’s not —“

“It’s okay,” says Jensen, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m just being hard on you.”

Jared relaxes. “Jerk.”

Jensen’s lips turn into a shy smile as he scratches his pen to paper. A second later, he clears his throat and gets serious once again. He’s good at what he does, being a auditor. But there’s a new furrow between Jensen’s brows that puzzles him.

“Jared, are you aware of any rumours surrounding Seaman Sandra McCoy?”

“Um, yeah,” Jared squirms. It’s none of his business, but there’s no denying the chit-chat around the mess hall. “I hear she’s, uh, knocked up.”

Jensen’s throat bobs as he swallows. “ _Was_ ,” he corrects, softly.

 _Was._ The thought of it makes Jared’s stomach clench.

“Are you aware of any rumours as to who the father is?”

Jared fidgets. He’s not used to such pointed questions. And he sort of gets it now, what Eduardo had said about Commander Ackles being a _total dickweed_. “Just some idiot… it’s no big deal.”

Jensen peers over the brims of his glasses. “What’s his name?”

Jared feels the pressure now, feels the cool stare of the Commander and an overwhelming compulsion to tell the truth. “Junior Officer Welling.”

“Thank you,” Jensen nods. More scratching on the notepad.

There’s a knot in Jared’s stomach that twists and tugs. He forgets about it after a few more questions.

“Have you ever done any shoplifting?”

“No.”

“What about in other lifetimes?”

Jared thinks for a second. “No.”

“Have you ever been a mutineer?”

“Like a pirate?”

“That’s a _buccaneer_ ,” Jensen corrects, gently. “A mutineer is someone who refuses to obey orders from a superior.”

“Then, no, I’m not a mutineer.”

Jensen cocks an eyebrow, prodding further. “Rebellious?”

“Maybe a little,” grins Jared, returning his gaze.

“I figured as much,” Jensen half-smiles. There’s a strange tension on his face, one that hadn’t been there during their other audits. Almost as though Jensen is holding back. Trying to put distance between them and only slightly failing.

The atmosphere changes and it’s suddenly tense. The room is silent, save for the low hum of the e-Meter. Jared blinks, watching and waiting for the inquisition.

“Jared, have you ever raped anyone?”

“ _No_ ,” he assures, taken aback by the question’s bluntness. “Never.”

“In this lifetime?” asks Jensen, eyebrows raising, scrutinizing.

Jared wracks his brain. He shakes his head, “In _any_ lifetime.”

“Tell me, have you ever hidden to watch sexual practices?”

“No.”

Jensen leans forward, gets close. “Would you like to?”

Jared blushes, his skin itching and crawling with humiliation and _want_. They’re veering into dangerous waters. “I’m not —”

“Have you ever practiced sodomy?” Jensen interrupts, leaning back and away, giving Jared a full view of the flush spreading down his neck.

Jared’s heart rate skyrockets. “Is that…?”

He doesn’t have to say it aloud to know. Jensen nods, biting his lip. His fingers twitch on the e-Meter knob.

“Then, no,” says Jared, then adds, “I — I think about it though.”

There’s tension in the room and Jared’s nostrils catch the faintest whisper of salt and sweat. Jensen’s hand looks clammy. “When do you think about it?”

“When I touch myself,” offers Jared in a slew of relief and confession. His cheeks are hot. “I think about pushing into something warm.”

Jensen nearly drops his pencil, listening to Jared confess like this. He clears his throat and pushes up on his glasses, which’ve slipped down the bridge of his nose.

Feeling bold, Jared gazes across the table and whispers, “Do you think about it too, Jensen?”

Jensen shudders, his cheeks turning a deep pink. “Padalecki, _I’m_ the one who asks the questions.”

Jared raises an eyebrow, as brash as the metal in his hands. “So _ask_ me.”

Jensen blinks, lust-gazes at Jared. Asks, breathy and bold, the question he’s surely been pondering ever since their sojourn on Bonaire. And long before this thing between them had taken hold. “Do — do you think about me when you touch yourself?”

Jared exhales, “ _Yes_.”

His hands slip on the cans as they tremble, cool metal turning sun-kiss warm. He watches Jensen struggle to keep composed, to breathe like normal. He straightens up and drops his head, won’t look Jared in the eye. He’s suddenly uncomfortable, _afraid_.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be —” says Jensen, fear colouring his cheeks. “I — I got carried away.” His face falls, looking like he’s aged twenty years in an instant.

Something’s wrong. Jared leans forward, “Jensen, are you okay?”

Jensen’s trembling and Jared can’t bear to watch him retreat in on himself. He wants to know _more_. Wants to dig deeper; to uncover the truth beneath Jensen’s mask. To get to the bottom of him.

_Fuck it._

Jared sets the cans on the table and slips around the table, lowering himself and catching Jensen’s pout-lips in his own. He plants a sweet kiss on his mouth. Laves his tongue along the healed-over cut on his lip that wasn’t there the last time they did this.

Jensen returns the kiss, chaste and sentimental, like he’s giving of himself. Like he’s latching onto Jared for dear life. Then, without warning, Jensen’s hand pushes against Jared’s chest and they part ways.

“We can’t,” he whispers, flushed and breathless. There’s fear in his eyes. The bruise under his eye seems to darken. Gets shadowy.

“Jensen, what’s going on?” Jared runs a soft thumb over the cut on his lip. “Where did you get these bruises?”

The Action Chief’s hand trembles, but stays firmly on Jared’s chest, creating a reluctant barrier between them. He stammers, “OT VIII is getting to me, Jared. I haven’t slept in days.” He shakes his head, willing the bad thoughts away. Not wanting Jared to bear them. “Never mind, I’m fine. Please, don’t worry about me.”

Jared wants more, but he can read the lines on Jensen’s face enough to know he’s done talking about it. He sighs, “Okay.” He returns to his seat across from the man tasked with extracting his _engrams_ , bit by bit. But it’s Jensen who looks like the broken one.

“This concludes the Security Check,” he says, at last, hands trembling over knobs and dials. “You passed with flying colours, as always.”

Jared half-smiles, “I’ve got a good teacher.”

They both stand and Jensen accompanies Jared to the door. He’s got his fingers on the knob, ready to leave, when Jensen reaches out to touch his arm, holds it gently.

“I think about you too,” he whispers, green eyes full of melancholy. Of adoration and of uncertainty. “I think about you too much.”

Jensen looks so beautiful when he opens up like this.

But Jared can’t deny there’s something ugly floating just beneath the surface. A poison in Jensen’s veins that hadn’t been there before he started OT VIII.

If the highest level of the Bridge is where Truth is Revealed, Jared can’t help but wonder if the truth is worth hearing.


	15. The Captain

A week later and Jensen’s purple bruises have faded to yellow-green. Jared’s worried about him, of course. He wonders where he got the bruises, if they have something to do with OT VIII. It weighs on his mind like a paperweight, preoccupying him at meal times, when he’s trying to sleep, and even during study sessions.

Despite his exhaustion, Jensen’s returned to administering Sea Org training. Today, he’s teaching Processing levels 13 to 15, a study of New Era Dianetics, or NED. It instructs on how to perform Relief Rundowns, Drug Rundowns, and other R3RA Services. Just a few more ladder rungs on the way to Clear.

Jared has a hard time focusing on his course readings now that there’s much more interesting things he’d rather be studying — dustings of freckles on nose-bridges, divots in bottom lips, cleanly clipped fingernails and bandy-legs. Jared’s got Ackles-anatomy memorized, down pat.

And the most remarkable thing of all — it’s not one-sided.

As hard as he fawns over Jensen during course teachings and auditing sessions, it’s equally apparent that Jared’s being fawned over too. From across the room, Jared knows when Jensen’s eyes are on him, watching and observing. During this evening’s Dianetics III, Jared feels their soft burn and glances up just in time to catch a glint of emerald before Jensen averts them back to his paperwork, back to other students. But Jared knows, deep down, Jensen’s all his. Can feel him in his bones. Like a destiny.

So Jared believes. He believes and he dreams and he makes plans — future kisses, love bites and bruises, a little place near Brush Canyon, where they can curl up and read Hubbard together. Where no one can tell them how their love is wrong. A place where they aren’t immoral or aberrated or _suppressive_.

Because it doesn’t feel wrong, the way Jared is. The way they are together. It feels warm and safe and _clean_ , like a refuge. Away from the smog and the bullshit and the SPs.

Whatever this is, it’s between the two of them.

And they’re both expert secret-keepers.

~~~

Jared spends the afternoon with the rest of the deckies, scrubbing and scraping mould off the hull. At about half-past four (and two overlapping sunburns later), Commander Collins rushes onto lower deck, blowing his whistle till he’s blue in the face.

“Deckies, report to the showers immediately! Clean up and suit up in formal uniform! Report back in _fifteen_. This is not a drill. MOVE!”

Everyone scatters like ants, shrill whistle sounds piercing their ears. They sprint to the showers, strip naked and line up single file like usual. They each take ten and tens — ten seconds to wet and lather, ten seconds to rinse — and hastily drip-dry before sprinting stark naked down to their bunks. They pull on their uniforms as fast as possible, single-knotting combat boots and mismatching buttons that can be fixed on the jog back to lower deck. No one’s late. No one’s ever late when whistles are blown. They all know whistle-shrills mean business.

Thirty seconds to go and they fall in line back on lower, adjusting last minute badges, straightening soldier caps, spit-shining boots. CDR Collins returns, sweating like a pig in the blistering sun. He does a hurried uniform check and, after deciding their formation is passable, turns his head towards upper deck and shouts:

“May I present, your Supreme Leader, CAPTAIN DANIEL KILLIAN.”

Suppressed whispers yield to stunned silence as the Church leader, the head of Scientology, Captain of the _MV Freewinds_ , Daniel Killian, emerges at the top of the stairs, descending upon them like an angel in white.

Jared’s mind starts to race. Daniel Killian is on lower deck. He’s so _close_. He’s about to step straight down onto the grate that Jared had mopped that morning. It’s exhilarating.

But, if it’s at all possible, Jared’s heart quickens even more as he spots Commander Ackles following on his flanks. It’s the most awestruck Jared’s been since the LHR birthday celebration.

Captain Killian marches over and halts directly in front of their ranks, surveying the new crop of Sea Org recruits with measured scrutiny. And, as he surveys, it suddenly strikes Jared just how _tiny_ Killian is. He can’t be more than five foot four, Tom Cruise height, with sinewy hands and gleaming white denture-teeth. For some reason, he reminds Jared of one of those fake-tanned televangelists.

After a moment of silence, Killian finally speaks in a slow and booming cadence:

“Welcome to Sea Org. It’s an organization where the operative phrase reads: exceeding all expectations, transcending all parameters, extending the boundaries beyond any boundary, not to mention God speed, lightning speed, and a quantum leap in sheer rapidity of progress of the Bridge to Total Freedom.”

Jared blinks, mesmerized. Something about his voice makes him a strange combination of drowsy and alert. Laser-focused, sleep deprived. Easy to mind-meld.

“We’re out to make every life extraordinary,” Killian continues, “and if by chance it ever seems laborious or a sacrifice then you are looking at the off ramps instead of the highway. You are missing the signpost up ahead. The one that reads: next stop, INFINITY.”

There’s a gentle stirring at this rousing call to action. A reminder that they’re meant for something bigger. It’s so easy to forget when they’re elbow deep in brass polish.

“But, unfortunately,” continues Killian, his eyes darkening, “for _one_ of you, your path to infinity ends now.”

A hush comes over the deck as Killian’s demeanour changes in an instant. The composed, impressive lines on his face suddenly deepen and become hard, cold, oppressive. Jared shivers.

“One of you has been secretly committing treason against the Church of Scientology and the Sea Org’s mission to clear the planet.”

There are collective thrum-drum heartbeats as Killian strays from his spot, striding carefully up and down their ranks. There’s fear and fascism in the air. As he nears, Jared feels light-headed. Does Killian know about Jared’s rendezvous with Jensen? Are there really hidden cameras in auditing rooms? Has Killian read Jared’s file? Does Killian _know_ about him? About _them_? His head spins as the Captain marches closer and closer…

Jared feels like he’s about to be sick. He can’t lose this. Can’t be cast out of the only thing he’s ever cared about. Can’t be declared a Suppressive Person.

Outside of the Church, he has _nothing_.

Jared heaves a sigh of relief when, at last, Killian passes him by, strolling menacingly along the front line. Perhaps this is just a drill, a ploy, a test of their allegiance. To see if anybody squeals or confesses to an overt, buckling under the guilt and pressure and —

“IT’S YOU, ISN’T IT?”

Shock spreads through the ranks like cancer as Killian, all five foot four of him, grabs a Sea Org member from the middle of formation and shoves him so hard his hat falls off. Pushes him square in the chest, through the ranks, until he collides with the ship’s railing. Jared freezes with horror.

Junior Officer Welling.

Killian has him by the breast of his uniform, red-faced and spitting, shaking and screaming at the top of his lungs, “YOU HAVE KNOWINGLY COMMITTED SINS AGAINST THE CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY.”

Welling tries to protest, to resist, but he can’t get a word in edgewise with Killian’s arm lodged against his windpipe. After a moment, the Captain relents, taking a step back and straightening up his uniform. There are monstrous veins popping out of his forehead.

Jared sighs in overwhelming relief. It’s just a drill after all. Some sort of scare tactic. And it’s certainly worked. Jared vows right then and there to be more careful going forward. To keep things close to the vest. They all do.

Junior Officer Welling rubs the already bluing bruise on his throat and tries to catch his breath against the ship rails. Captain Killian turns to face the rest of the deckies, shocked at the sudden outburst of violence. He says in a measured tone, “We commit your errors to the deep.”

In a flash, Killian whips around and shoves Welling so hard he topples straight overboard, over the rail and _down down down_. A few of the deckies can’t help but rush to the edge of the ship, watching in horror as one of their own, their _comrade_ , struggles to tread water in the churn of the ship’s wake.

Jared, on instinct, breaks away from the crowd and runs toward the nearest life preserver. His fingers shake as he unties the Cleat Hitch knot that he himself had secured yesterday. Suddenly, he feels two strong hands grip his shoulders, pulling him back, whipping him around. Next thing he knows, he’s staring into the wide eyes of Jensen Ackles.

“Jared, _don’t_ ,” he hisses, his face white as he scans the chaotic crowd for Killian. “Please, it’s not worth it.”

“He can’t _swim,_ ” pleads Jared, imploring Jensen, searching his face for an ounce of compassion.

Jensen clenches his jaw and, at last, resolves. He lets go of his grip on Jared and pushes him back into the crowd before he takes over the task, untying the knot at breakneck pace. In just a few seconds, Jensen throws the life preserver overboard, calling out to Junior Officer Welling, churning in the water.

Jared joins his cohort at the edge of the ship, watching as Welling struggles, but somehow manages to hook an arm around the life preserver and hang on for dear life. Jared’s gaze is divided between Welling and Jensen, who marches through the crowd and whispers in Killian’s ear. Jared can’t see the Captain’s face, but it’s clear from the way his shoulders tense and the cords on his neck tighten that he’s angry again. Jared shudders.

A shrill whistle from Commander Collins distracts him. “Who said you could break formation? Get back in line!”

Jared falls back into the platoon with the others, breathless and heart-hammering. He glances over at Jensen, catches his weary eye. Tries to settle his heartbeat and avoids looking at Killian, despite feeling his icy blue gaze burning holes in his flesh. Now Jared’s the one being watched. Surveilled.

Captain Killian leaves the deck without another word, Jensen and CRD Collins in tow, leaving the rest of them to swab the decks and scrub what just happened from their minds.

~~~

Tom Welling doesn’t come to bed that night. And if Jared hadn’t witnessed first hand Tom’s cold, seized up limbs being dragged back onto the ship by some Ensigns, there’d be an even bigger pit in Jared’s stomach. At least Welling is alive. Most likely, the ship doctor is keeping him overnight for observation. Little does the medic know there are thirteen other irregular heartbeats in Jared’s bunk that night.

None of them can sleep a wink.

Not with the constant _swish swish_ of bedsheets, of tossing and turning and groaning bedsprings. Everyone’s on edge. They all know to fear and revere their leader, but nobody could have predicted the cold, callous look in Killian’s eyes when he’d locked and loaded on Tom. And Jared can’t deny it: the Captain has brute strength beyond all reason. Packs a lot of punch for five foot four.

It’d almost be impressive if it wasn’t so terrifying.

Try as he might, Jared can’t get the image of Tom being shoved overboard out of his mind. Every time he shuts his eyes he can see the scene imprinted on the backs of his eyelids — the fear, the terror, the sheer abuse of power. Pushed by the freaking Pope of Scientology.

It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel _right_.

~~~

After a sleepless night and a sombre morning in the mess hall, Tom still hasn’t resurfaced. So Jared keeps his head down at muster; completes his drills and deck-cleaning as usual. Today’s training is about how to survive a gas attack. So they all wear blindfolds and are forced to crawl from the lower decks to the uppers, bumping and bruising and scraping knees on metal stairs. It’s practice for when they get raided by the IRS.

Jared spends the day with one eye on what he’s doing and the other on the lookout for Jensen. He’s conspicuously absent from the upper decks, the meal hall, and running drills. Halfway though afternoon work, Jared’s jaw starts to ache from gritting his teeth, because there’s so much he wants to ask him, so many unanswered questions about yesterday: _Did he know Killian was going to do that? Why did they single out Tom? Was it because Jared mentioned him in his Sec Check? How much of Jared’s file is Jensen disclosing? What’s he keeping secret?_

Jensen Ackles is an expert on half-truths and omissions, that much Jared knows. But he also knows Jensen would never lie to him. Not about this.

Twenty-four hours later, Jared still can’t forget about it — the repressed look of horror in Jensen’s eyes, the passive acceptance of such overt violence, as Killian threw one of their own overboard, churning into the sea foam. How Jensen didn’t look as shocked as the rest of them. Like he already knew what was going to happen…

Jared’s belly is unsettled about the whole thing. But what stops it from roiling over is the fact that Jensen had helped save Tom when it really counted — when _Jared_ had given the word.

 _Jensen Ackles, a Scientology superhero_.

Jared shakes his head. He wonders what sorts of super-heroics Killian makes Jensen perform. There’s a part of Jared that doesn’t want to know. It’s so much easier to keep the curtain pulled shut.

But little by little, he’s letting the light in.

~~~

By the end of the next day, Jared’s weary and winded. And there’s still no sign of Tom. No sign of Jensen either.

He’s burning up inside, dying to know the answers to his questions. So at half past ten that night, right between Dianetics III and scrubbing toilets, he slips away to the Officers quarters, down the dark corridor to the cabin labeled CMR J. Ackles. Looks around furtively then raps his knuckles on the door.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Pause. “Who is it?”

Jared scratches his fingers at the door. Hums, “It’s me.” He blinks, awaiting a response. He’s about to clarify exactly who _me_ is referring to when —

“Not now, Jared.”

He sighs, pressing his forehead to the cold metal. “Open the goddamn door, Jensen.”

Silence. Nothing. And then, from down the passageway, comes the echo of men’s voices, rounding the corner, growing louder and louder. They’re coming this way.

Jared knocks more urgently. “Jensen, please. _Someone’s coming_.”

A quick hesitation, a click, and then the door opens a crack and Jared slips inside. It’s pitch dark inside the room and Jensen grabs the front of Jared’s shirt, yanking him until he’s hidden behind the door and out of sight. The voices in the passageway grow louder. They’re just outside now. Jensen and Jared freeze, holding their breaths.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Jared exhales, heart pounding. In the dark, he feels Jensen’s hand cover his mouth. He shuts up and tries to still his pulse.

Jensen clears his throat, “Yes?”

“Letter for you, Commander.” It’s the voice of LCDR Davis.

Jensen tenses. “Just slip it under the door.”

“I was instructed to hand it to you in person, sir.”

Jared’s eyes adjust enough to see Jensen’s eyes flicker to his in silent warning. He lets his hand drop from Jared’s mouth and steps aside to open the door.

Jared nearly gasps, but catches himself. Because the dim light of the hallway illuminates Jensen’s face — it’s bruised, battered, sliced open like a fillet in places. There’s a bloody gash on his cheek, scrapes on his nose, and a brutal black eye that’s swollen up like a prize fighter’s. He’s been beaten, badly.

“The Captain wonders if you’re feeling better,” says Davis from the other side of the door.

“Feeling just fine. Is that letter from him?”

“It is,” says Davis with a sneer. “Well wishes, most likely.”

“Mm-hm,” says Jensen, taking the letter. “Thank you, Lieutenant-Commander. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

He begins to shut the door but is stopped when Davis extends a hand, preventing it from closing. Jared can almost hear the smirk in Davis’ voice.

“Forgive me, Commander, but I could’ve sworn I just saw one of the deckies come up onto this level. Padalecki, is it?”

There’s tension in the air as Jensen stares down Davis. Jared’s heart pounds so hard he swears the whole ship can hear it.

“Then I guess you’d better do your job and find out what the hell he’s up to,” says Jensen, cool and collected, an underlying threat in his voice. “Wouldn’t want the Captain to find out a new recruit is wandering the halls during your watch.”

Davis grits his teeth and backs away. “Good night, Commander.”

Jensen nods and closes the door. The two of them stay silent as they listen to the footsteps fade down the passageway. The letter shakes in Jensen’s hand before he whips around to face Jared.

“What are you _doing_ here? Do you realize how risky this is?”

Even though Jared’s got his reasons to be angry, there’s a sick part of him, the part that’s head over heels, that relishes Jensen’s touch, even if it’s a fist grab at the front of his shirt.

“I don’t give a shit,” he says, resolute. “I want to know what happened to you.” He brushes the side of Jensen’s bruised cheek with his hand.

Jensen winces. “It’s nothing. I fell.”

“Don’t act like I’m stupid. Tell me who did this.”

Jensen can’t meet his eye. He bites his swollen lip and then groans in pain.

“Was — was it Killian?” asks Jared, scarcely daring to utter it aloud. The blasphemy.

“I told you, I fell. And that’s my final word on that, Padalecki.”

Jared scoffs. “Don’t pull rank with me, Jensen. Not now.” He’s angry and confused and just can’t help himself. He cradles Jensen’s broken face in his hands, smooths his thumb along the purples and blues. He leans forward and ghosts whisper-kisses along his scrapes and welts. Soothes the cut on his lip with a swipe of tongue.

Jensen melts under the tenderness and care. Releases the tension from his shoulders and lets Jared hug his weary head against his chest, long fingers carding through cropped hair.

“Oh god, Jared,” he utters in a broken exhale, “The other day, with Welling… I — I wish you didn’t have to see that.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” soothes Jared, rocking him gently. “It doesn’t matter. I’m okay.”

A breath hitches in Jensen’s chest and then he pulls away from Jared, looking deep into his eyes with an anguished despair. “Goddamn it, Jared. Why’d you have to be the hero, huh? You were so stupid. So, so stupid…”

“I was stupid for trying to save my friend’s life? Give me a fucking break, Jen.”

Jensen clutches the front of Jared’s shirt even tighter. Pretends like he didn’t hear him. “Promise me you’ll never do anything like that ever again. That you’ll never step out of line.” He gives Jared a little shake. “ _Promise me_.”

“Alright, alright, I promise,” says Jared, feeling ill at ease with the fear in Jensen’s eyes. But he finally summons the courage to voice what he’s been worried about since his Security Check. “Jensen, ever since you did OT VIII… you’re _different_ …”

“Everything’s fine,” he replies, much too quickly. He backs away from Jared, the unopened letter shaking in his hands. “Just promise me you’ll keep your head down and get through EPF, okay? That you’ll get off this ship…”

“Promise,” repeats Jared, furrowing his brows. “But… are you okay? Can’t we talk about —“

“You have to leave, now. They’ll be back any minute.”

“But —“

“ _Now_ , Jared.”

Jensen opens the door and scans the passageway.

With a frown and pouty eyes, Jared slinks out of the room with a terse, “Bye” and shuffles all the way back down to his bunk. Back to normalcy. Whatever the hell that means.

Four weeks later, the _MV Freewinds_ docks back on the California coast and the newly minted Sea Org Junior Officers board a bus back to the Church of Los Angeles.

And if Jared had only known the last time he would see Jensen for weeks was behind the door of that moonlit cabin, he would’ve held him tight and kissed his bruises sweet.

Curse the fact that he’s not high enough up the Bridge to see the future.


	16. The Return

_January, 1994.  
Los Angeles, California._

_WE COME BACK._   
_This isn’t the first time we’ve been together._   
_Welcome home shipmate._

The first thing Jared notices when he steps back into the Los Angeles Church is the conspicuously absent “L” on the life-size Sea Org recruitment poster tacked up just inside the entryway. There are three officers depicted on it, all holding gleaming swords aloft to the stars.

As he and his comrades reenter Big Blue, they’re met with tepid applause from those milling about the front lobby. Jared blushes, feeling strangely alien at the praise, as the newly minted Junior Officers are given their new dormitory assignments: the ninth floor of the old Christie Hotel, right across from the Hollywood Wax Museum. It’s tradition for the low-to-mid level Sea Org members to share dorms at the Christie.

Not Junior Officer Welling though. He’s been officially declared a PTS, Potential Trouble Source, and sent away for rehabilitation.

After a week back on solid ground, Jared starts to finally find his footing again. He adjusts from the exhausting training regimen onboard the _Freewinds_ to the day-to-day activities as a full-fledged member of the Los Angeles Church. There are less drills (less deck swabs and white-glove inspections and uniform checks) than there is clerical work, photo ops, and PR. But they still have to run everywhere. That’s never going to change.

He moves out of his cramped apartment on North Hoover to the even more cramped dormitories at the Christie, making the dreaded nine-story climb every time he has to retrieve a book or a left-behind lapel pin. Sometimes Jared just stuffs everything he owns into a backpack and carries it around Big Blue so there’s no chance of forgetting anything. (He’s had to take the bus across town three times already.) It’s tight quarters, but after being squished together like sardines on the _Freewinds_ , the ninth floor dorms are almost like having personal space again. Almost.

In addition to his daily studies, he’s put to work at the Los Angeles Church immediately. It’s minor administrative tasks at first — organizing documents, making cold calls, working shifts at the Big Blue bookstore — but Jared’s so gung-ho to scrape and claw his way up the Bridge that the higher-ups start selecting him for bigger tasks. Little by little, he picks up more responsibility: learning how to co-audit, preaching _Dianetics_ tenets to kids, and herding new recruits like sheep. He’s beginning to feel important, beginning to take pride in his achievements, like he’s actually _doing_ something to clear the planet instead of just reading about it.

It’s exhilarating.

And soul-crushingly lonely.

Nearly six weeks have passed since he’s caught so much as a glimpse of Jensen Ackles, face bloodied and bruised, lip-swollen and tenderized behind a cabin door on the _Freewinds_. Jared still hasn’t gotten to the bottom of what really happened, how or why Jensen got his bruises, but there’s a dull pit in his stomach that sinks heavy with suspicion — with thoughts too unbelievable, too impossible, to be true.

He tries not to think about it too much. Tries not to dwell on what it might mean if the Pope of Scientology is beating up Bishops.

But he keeps his eyes open. Keeps his ears attuned and his heart guarded. Scans the hallways for glimpses of green eyes and cropped hair, but never sees anyone who resembles the man he’d fallen head over heels for on Bonaire beaches. He starts keeping a tally of every day Jensen is absent from courses, from the corridors, from interviews on cable news.

The radio silence is getting to him.

Without Jensen, all Jared hears is white noise.

~~~

One of the privileges of Sea Org membership is that Junior Officers are permitted to arrange meetings with Action Chiefs about various issues related to Scientology — from internal doubts, to stubborn questions, to special requests. And after twenty-one tally marks indicating Jensen’s absence, Jared’s in desperate need of a consultation. He files an official request for a Action Chief appointment. Six days later, it’s granted.

It’s after hours on a Friday night, the sun setting gold and pink over the Hollywood Hills, when Jared raps on the seventh floor office door — CMR J. ACKLES.

“ _Come in_.”

As Jared enters, his heart thumps so fast he’s shocked he doesn’t faint. Because Jensen is just as beautiful as he remembers — bright green eyes, pink lips, broad shoulders and freckles. And nothing can prepare him for the look in his Action Chief’s eyes (adoration, relief, and _love_ ) when he lifts his head to see Jared there, in his office, in his space.

That he’s come for him, at last.

“Hi,” says Jared, soft and coquettish. He rarely gets coy, but for some reason, barging in on Jensen like this makes him shuffle his feet and hang his head like a puppy-dog. His heart races as he shuts the door behind him, feigning professionalism.

Jensen blinks those impossibly long eyelashes. “Jared, _hi_ ,” he echoes, just as trembly, just as shy. Sets his pencil and paper aside and just _looks_ at Jared, really looks at the young man standing before him like he’s been everything missing in his world.

“I miss you,” says Jared, blunt-blurting the words he’s been holding onto for weeks. “Hope that’s okay.”

Jensen softens, smiles. “Yeah, it’s okay.” He motions to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

Jared sits, unable to take his eyes off of the specimen across from him. They’re both all smiles and flirtatious eye-flickers. And a moment later, the nervous tension becomes too much for the air around them, so they burst into little giddy-laughs. It’s a high like Jared’s never known.

“So, what,” says Jared, a glint in his eye, “now that I’m all trained up you don’t have time for me anymore?”

“Took your meeting, didn’t I?” Jensen grins. “Besides, I thought maybe _you_ were too much of a big shot to need me.”

Jared laughs. “Oh, see, I figured OT VIIIs wouldn’t be caught dead with lowly Class IIIs.”

It’s barely perceptible, but Jensen’s shoulders stiffen at the mere mention of OT VIII. Soon enough, he softens again and the tips of his ears go pink. “I always have time for you, Jared.” His thumb unconsciously ghosts over the healed cut on his lip. “Wish you needed me like you used to.”

Jared’s heart flutters, his cheeks burn. “I do need you.”

The air is thick and crackling with electricity, the way it always does when they’re together. It’s serious and heavy, so Jared strikes a match. Lights playful sparklers instead.

“So, is this what you do in your spare time?” He gestures to the metal machine sitting atop Jensen’s desk. “Play with e-Meters?”

Jensen relaxes. Raises an eyebrow and chuckles. “If I say yes, will you think I’m more interesting?”

“Hmmm, no, less.”

“Then, no, I don’t play with e-Meters,” he winks.

Jared pauses, mischief in his eyes, before turning the e-Meter towards himself. Puts his co-auditing lessons to good use by fiddling with the knobs and dials. In a singsong voice, he coos, “Commander Ackles, please pick up the cans.”

Jensen resists for a moment, holds his gaze to Jared’s in half-hearted defiance. Then, he picks up the cans. He’ll always pick them up for Jared. The silver shines so pretty between his palms.

“Now take a deep breath.”

Jensen does, letting beautiful air into his lungs. Jared smiles. He likes the way his chest looks, rising and falling with the inhale-exhale.

“Good. We’ll begin the audit now.” Jared taps his fingers against his lips, thinking. “Jensen, do you play with e-Meters in your spare time?”

“No, sir,” he grins.

“Ah, very good, very good.” He tries to play it cool, but can’t help but swoon at the way Jensen says _sir_. “Are you or have you ever been a…. narcoleptic pink elephant?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

“Hmm, interesting. And how do you feel about being controlled?”

Jensen raises an eyebrow. “Pretty damn good.”

Jared hums, a smile curling at his lips. “I’ll make a note of that.” He twists one of the dials, “So, what do you think of Jared Padalecki?”

Jensen purses his lips. “I think he’s gonna be in big trouble after this fake audit’s over.”

“Ackles, please answer the question. What do you think of Jared Padalecki?”

Jensen shifts in his seat. Clears his throat and gets serious. Throws Jared off guard. “Honestly? I think he’s one of the most capable Sea Org recruits I’ve ever seen. He’s smart, logical, strong…”—Jensen raises an eyebrow—“and somehow still getting taller.”

Jared pauses, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. But he’s not satisfied yet. “One more time. What do you _really_ think of Jared Padalecki?”

Jensen’s cheeks blush pink. He whispers, soft and sweet, “I think — I think I might be falling for him.”

Jared’s heart hitches. “Really?”

“Yes. I mean, how could I not?” Jensen leans forward, fully playing along now. Bats his eyelashes, “This is all confidential, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then, actually, if I’m _really_ honest… I think about him all the time. How he talks, how he feels, how he tastes…”

Jared swallows. There’s a fuzzy cocoon in his belly giving birth to butterflies. He’s silent for a minute, taking it all in. It’s the most Jensen has ever confessed and Jared wonders how far he can push it.

“Noted,” says Jared, twisting the e-Meter knobs. “And, um, have you ever felt this… Am I your… Have there been others?”

Jensen’s cheeks are pink now. Confession time. “There’ve been a few women, here and there.” He meets Jared’s eye. Blinks, soft and sweet. “None of them mattered the way you do.”

Jared’s got a bad case of dry mouth. His fingers tremble on the dials. He wants so badly to say _me too_ and _you’re my one and only_ , but instead, he lets his body do the talking. Gets up from his seat and rounds the desk to where Jensen is sitting, leans down and plants a kiss on those perfect lips.

And Jensen kisses him back, dropping the cans on the desk and melting into Jared like he’s been carrying the weight of their separation for months. Jared kisses harder, _deeper_. He’s hungry for truth, to _feel_ everything — the pain, the love, the desire — just to know that they’re still _real_. That this thing between them is as close to transcendence as they’ll get.

Jensen shakes his head in disbelief, fighting against fingers cupped around his jawbone, “I missed you, Jared.”

Jared loves him so much. “I know.”

They meet in the middle again, kissing each other with the twist and tug of two wanton lovers. Shaking and shuddering, they move to the sofa at the side of the office. Jensen kisses him one last time before sliding to his knees, fumbling at the buttons on Jared’s pants until he tugs them down around his thighs. Rubs his face all over him, nose nudging at his erection, mouthing at damp boxer shorts. Breathes him in before pulling Jared’s gorgeous cock out, glistening at the tip.

“So big,” Jensen hums, licking his lips.

Jared braces himself against the sofa and heaves a heavy sigh as he takes in the sight of Jensen on his knees. Pets his hair. “Gonna make me feel good?”

Jensen moans as he lowers his mouth, taking Jared in, fast and hard, like his life depends on it. Jared watches as those perfect blowjob lips slide on him like a lollypop, suckling at the swollen head like he wants to milk the good out. Like he can never get enough of him. Something like _love_.

“Oh god, Jensen,” Jared moans, torn between losing himself in the way his cock nudges deep at Jensen’s throat and watching him do it. And it’s a beautiful sight, the perfect swirl of tongue, the glistening saliva that slicks him, and the way those gorgeous green eyes meet his own. And there’s nothing he can do because the feeling is building and Jared is helpless and begging for mercy under the gorgeous bruise of lips and hollow cheek bones. He reaches a hand down, liberates it from the grip on his thigh, and intertwines their fingers like lovers. “Gonna come soon…”

Jensen hums in response but stays the course, dragging his slippery lips up and down Jared’s cock like he owns it. Like he _wants_ him on the inside, wants him closer, _together_. Clutches Jared’s hand like a promise and he goes deeper, pushing and sliding until Jared can feel the pleasure coiling in his gut and… _oh god, oh god_ …

Transcendence. Bliss.

Time stands still as Jared empties into him, spilling beautifully on Jensen’s tongue, down his cocksucker throat, eyelashes fluttering like butterflies and squeezing hands in promise. He’s never had it so good. May never again.

And it’s all surreal, as he slides sweetly from wet mouth and pulls Jensen up into his lap. Kisses his salt-stained lips and devours him. Fumbles at the front of his pants until he’s got those long fingers wrapped around his cock, jerking him off like a teenager in heat while Jensen collapses into him, panting at Jared’s neck and making little high-pitched noises.

Jensen runs a hand up Jared’s arm, fingernails scraping at bare skin, and worship-kisses around his collarbone, moaning and whimpering as Jared pulls at his swollen cock, relishing the beauty of Jensen bucking against him and shivering until… _Jared, Jared, Jaredddd_.

Sparks fly and salt fills the air as Jensen comes, shooting his pearly love all over Jared’s hand, quivering like a plucked piano string and reverberating pretty high-notes that make Jared’s heart sing. He whimper-moans into Jared’s mouth, kissing him and going boneless. Tears of joy burn the backs of their eyes and they just hold each other, heavy breaths and heart eyes.

After cleaning themselves up, Jared untangles their sweaty hands and cups Jensen’s chin like a delicate flower, pulling up through the weeds till he’s plucked ripe. Kisses him on the mouth, tasting himself and blushing at the thought of his insides warming Jensen’s belly. They break for a moment and just gaze at each other. Remembering.

“You’re beautiful,” says Jensen, bright eyes flitting across Jared’s face. In disbelief.

“You’re”—begins Jared, boneless, brainless—“beautiful.”

Jensen grins. “You’re an echo.”

“You’re mine _…_ ”

Later, even after cuddling together on the sofa for who knows how long, there remains a niggling feeling in the pit of Jared’s belly — the real reason why he’d called this meeting. Because he’s got to ask. Got to _know_.

“Jensen,” he starts, his voice quiet. Knows he’s treading into uncharted waters now. “What happened to you on the _Freewinds_?”

Jensen shakes his head slowly, like his body’s fighting him on it.

“Tell me, was it Killian?”

Jensen’s eyes glisten. His lip trembles. “If I tell you, you’ll get _hurt_.” His whole body quivers now, like there are secrets inside of him, shaking and clawing to come out.

It’s too painful for Jared to watch, so he cradles Jensen’s head in his hands. Lets him know, in not so many words, that he’s safe.

“It’s okay,” says Jared, caressing his cheek, tucking him close.

And Jensen collapses into him, going pliant, pressing into Jared’s chest like he wants to combine them, to nudge and push until their two skins meld together and he slips right inside. Where it’s warm. Where it’s safe.

“It was punishment,” he admits at last. “What happened to me, it was punishment for helping Junior Officer Welling.”

Jared frowns. “For saving his life…”

Jensen nuzzles his nose against Jared, cradling up like a lost boy. He sighs, too exhausted to argue.

Jared runs fingers through his hair, pets at the stubble on his cheek. Whispers, “You don’t deserve any of this.” He brushes their lips together. “Any of the bad things.”

There’s nowhere else to turn but into each other.


	17. The Auditor

It’s Jared’s first free Friday night in weeks and he’s spending it catching up with an old friend. Eduardo’s little brother, Tito, is performing with the “Kids On Stage for a Better World” drug-free dance troupe at the Celebrity Centre. Jared had agreed to accompany him days ago, but the moment he steps into the glittery Garden Pavilion Theatre he realizes he’d rather be anywhere else.

Not only is he exhausted from Sea Org work, but he’s got a lingering bad taste in his mouth about the Church after last week’s meeting with Jensen, where he’d admitted (in not so many words) that Daniel Killian himself had been responsible for his brutalization aboard the _Freewinds_. So Jared’s really not in the mood for song and dance when he plunks his ass down in the theatre seat next to his old roommate.

“Lil’ _hermano_ ’s big debut,” says Eduardo, giddy with pride as he points to Tito’s name in the program. Jared half-smiles. Eduardo’s parents, who’d crossed the border from Mexico with ten dollars to their name, were killed in a car accident on the I-5 when Tito was three years old. The two brothers are all each other has. Jared’s been hearing more and more stories like Eduardo’s lately during his recruiting work. Seems like most of the people interested in Scientology have tragic pasts: torn apart families, dead parents, drug addiction. All the broken children with broken pasts, wrangled together.

What a coincidence.

Suddenly, the lights dim and a hush falls over the auditorium. The sound of synthesizer blasts through the speakers, neon lights turning the theatre into a cheesy discotheque. Upbeat, grating music scratches at Jared’s eardrums as a troupe of kids bounces out on stage, clapping with creepy smiles on their plastic faces. The crowd goes wild. There’s so much glitter it makes Jared’s eyes hurt.

“ _WE’RE THE KIDS! WE’RE THE KIDS! WE’RE THE KIDS OF THE FUTURE!_ ”

The unison shout-singing is an assault on Jared’s senses as the kids skip and shout across the stage in clumsily choreographed movements. There are girls as young as four, shaking their butts to the music, singing their lungs out like a caterwaul. Tito is part of the chorus, doing awkward dance moves with the rest of the Mickey Mouse Club wannabes.

After the rousing chorus, the stage cuts to black before exploding with smoke and light. There’s a spotlight shining on a twelve-year old mini Michael Jackson, standing on a platform with a microphone and a beauty pageant sash that reads “THE FUTURE.” The girls in the audience scream with glee as the child star kicks into his solo:

_“Looking out and into the night sky,_   
_Watching as the stars all around go rushing byyyy,_   
_I stand on my own and I wonder whyyyy,_   
_Here we go now let me remind you,_   
_Look ahead the past is behind you!”_

_“WE’RE THE KIDS OF THE FUTURE, WHOA!!!_   
_WE’RE THE KIDS OF THE FUTURE, WHOA!!!_   
_EVERYBODY LIVE, FOR THE FUTURE IS NOW!!!”_

The song ends and the theatre erupts in raucous applause. Jared reluctantly stands in ovation when Eduardo jumps up, whooping and hollering, “ _TITO! TITO!”_

It’s all just a little bit weird.

But Jared suffers through a six-year old’s solo rendition of “Hello, Earth,” a ballad about cleaning up the pollution in Los Angeles. He grins and bears the cautionary tale about the dangers of Ritalin (replete with an unsettling chant called “Vitamin R”). Halfway through a jubilant song and dance to Hubbard’s own “A Being Causes His Own Feelings (Oh Yeah!),” Jared leans over to Eduardo.

“You don’t find this weird?” he mutters, watching a seven-year old boy gyrating his hips like Elvis.

“Weird?” Eduardo balks, whooping and hollering at the performance. “What’s weird about it? These kids are incredible.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Jared sighs. There are twelve-year old girls dancing on chairs in ways that would make Britney Spears blush.

Little by little, every moment, every day, things are becoming more transparent.

He’s starting to go clear.

~~~

It’s a Wednesday afternoon and Jared’s stuck at the Celebrity Centre prepping Audit Room B for Jenna Elfman. She’s arriving for a session at precisely four o’clock (half-past five in celebrity time), so Jared’s been arranging flowers, dusting every nook and cranny, polishing each individual metal screw on the furniture and buffing smudge marks from the windows. Everything has to be pristine because, more than the session itself, the goal of celebrity visits is to extract as much money from them as possible — cash upfront for new course materials, elite services (invitations to Tom Cruise parties), donations that end up in the Church’s coffers. Investing in celebrities pays big dividends.

Despite this, it irks Jared that Hollywood people are given such special treatment, made such a fuss over, when actors are always the least disciplined among them. Most celebrities linger on the lower rungs of the Bridge even if they’ve purported to be Scientologists for years, _decades_ even. Jared doubts many of them do their two hours of mandatory study per day. How could they when they’re busy with soap operas and personal assistants and cocaine? As far as he’s concerned, they can all get bent.

But Jared is a good Scientologist and does what he’s told, so he scrubs every last inch of Audit Room B on hands and knees until his back’s nearly crippled. And when he leaves the room, he supposes he’s accomplished something. He can’t quite put his finger on what that accomplishment is, nor how it better serves him or the planet. He was taught that selflessness is nine-tenths of the law.

At a quarter to four, he cleans himself up in the staff bathroom and makes his way toward the rear of the Centre, ducking out the back entrance so he doesn’t accidentally bump into Ms. Elfman while wearing a sweat-stained shirt and coveralls.

As he makes his way back down Sunset, the hot sun beating down on his neck, he thinks about how strange it is that Jenna Elfman will never know his name, never see his face. That he’s just spent hours cleaning the room where she’ll sit for a couple hours, never knowing that a magical cleaning fairy had come and gone like pixie dust. It was maddening, really. And it made him think about all of the people _he’s_ never noticed — cleaners and clerical workers and document runners — ones that keep the Church spotless. Ones that keep up the façade, both here and abroad. He thinks of Jensen running around on his mystery missions and what he might be doing now.

_I clean up messes no one wants to clean up._

Jared doesn’t get three steps inside the Los Angeles Church gates before two men in suits clap him on the shoulders.

“Come with us,” they say, beckoning him forward. They’re wearing official Scientology pins on their lapels, so he blindly follows.

“Where are we going?”

The men don’t answer. Jared chances a glance around at the other working parishioners — gardeners, sweepers… None of _them_ have men at their flanks.

They’re free.

There’s a pang in Jared’s stomach as he ponders what’s happening. He’ll have his answer soon enough.

~~~

Ten minutes later, he’s plunked down in an auditing room in Big Blue, a shiny e-Meter gleaming on the table. A part of him relaxes. It’s just an audit. In a moment, Jensen will walk through the doors and everything will be normal again. His sudden uptick in mood is quelled, however, when the door clicks shut and a very _not_ -Jensen Action Chief approaches the table. The auditor is a medium-tall man with a large midsection and a flat-top haircut. If he had a moustache, he would very closely resemble a walrus. Or Wilford Brimley.

The man sits down and fiddles with the machine dials. “I’m Commander Sheppard,” he says, half-cold, half-gruff. “I’ll be performing your audit today.”

Jared startles. He’s never audited without Jensen before. “Where’s Commander Ackles?”

Sheppard doesn’t look up from the e-Meter. He pushes one of the sliders up. “The Commander is unavailable. Please pick up the cans.”

Jared swallows, but follows through. He picks up the metal cans and squeezes them gently. They feel colder than usual.

“Is there any reason not to have a session?”

Jared blinks. Blood thumps in his ears. “No.”

The auditor nods. “This is the session.”

They begin.

“Do you have an ARC break?”

“No.” _Lie_. He’s seething just below the skin.

“Do you have a present time problem?”

“No.” _Lie again_. Jared’s brain is high on ADHD, wondering where Jensen is and what the hell this guy was up to.

“Has a withhold been missed?”

“No.” _Lie three_. Jared has demons. Plenty of ‘em.

The needle goes wild. Gains a life of its own. Jared can see the spike of it in the auditor’s cold eyes.

The man _tsk tsks_ , “I think you’re lying, Jared.”

Jared is frozen, gripping the cans like they’ll slip if he lets up a fraction of an inch. For the first time, he feels _uncomfortable_ being audited, like he’s on edge and primed for a fuck-up. He’s got nothing to hide, really, except everything he is as a person — everything he feels and everyone he loves.

“I want you to answer the next series of questions without blinking,” says Sheppard. “If you blink, we go back to the start. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Beginning now, you are not to blink.”

The auditor stares him down, pausing for an exorbitant amount of time before starting in on his bizarre line of questioning. Jared’s eyeballs are fuzzy and dry.

“Do you spend time thinking about how insignificant you are?”

Jared blinks, “No.”

“You blinked. We’re going back to the start now. Are you capable of following basic instructions? You promised you wouldn’t blink.”

“Sorry,” says Jared in a small voice. He’s doing his best to concentrate. Cans, questions, keeping his eyes open. “Ready.”

Sheppard nods. “Do you spend time thinking about how insignificant you are?”

“No.”

“Have you or a member of your family ever been deemed insane?”

Jared’s lip quivers. He can feel his eyelids fluttering, but he won’t blink. Not this time. “No.”

“Have you ever had sex with a child?”

“ _No_.”

“Do you have a secret you’re afraid I’ll find out?”

Pause. “No.”

The auditor surveys the floating needle and leans forward, staring and pointing his finger at Jared. “Don’t. You. Fucking. Blink.”

Jared’s eyes are on fire and it’s difficult to control his tongue, but he does as he’s told, praying it’ll all end soon.

“Do you have a secret you’re afraid I’ll find out?”

_Don’t blink. Don’t blink._

“Yes,” he says, changing his tune and startling himself.

Terror rips through him. What if he reveals something he’s desperate to keep buried? Stolen kisses on ship decks, aberrated love affairs…

“I want you to tell me what it is.”

Jared clenches his jaw so hard he sees stars. He blinks the sparks away and immediately regrets it. “ _Fuck_ ,” he curses, banging the cans together to make a dull _ting_ sound.

“Back to the beginning,” says the auditor, calm and cold. He waits for Jared to compose himself. “Do you spend time thinking about how insignificant you are?”

“Yes.”

“Have you or a member of your family ever been deemed insane?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like having sex with children?”

“I — I don’t do that.”

The auditor watches the needle. “Jared, are you lying?”

“ _No_ ,” he says, firm and exasperated. He’s desperate to see what Sheppard sees, if the needle is floating all over the place. He’s terrified that his words, his _mind_ , are getting all warped and twisted.

“Have you ever had sex with a child?”

“No.”

“Do you have any secret plans against Scientology?”

Jared balks. “No. _Never_.”

“Are you planning to steal money to injure Scientology?”

“ _No._ ”

“Have you ever thought about hurting Daniel Killian?”

“ _NO._ ”

For three more hours, Jared takes it. Answers _no_ questions and _never_ questions until he’s blue in the face. Until his eyes are bloodshot and his mind is addled. Until at long last…

“Close your fucking eyes and put down the cans.”

Jared collapses back in his chair, exhausted and braindead. He’s breathing heavily, floating high above his body like he’s watching the whole thing unfold. Like he’s not himself anymore.

Sheppard leans across the table. Points a finger and utters in a low, menacing voice, “Now you listen to me, boy. We’re watching you. We know you’re up to something. It’s just a matter of time before you’re declared a PTS. So you’d better think long and hard about whether what you’re hiding’s really worth it. Because we’ll find out, Jared. We always find out.”

When he opens his eyes, Sheppard and the e-Meter are gone. The lights are off. And Jared is left with a dissolving _engram_ like it never happened.

~~~

Jared’s body is heavy, but his feet ascend like his shoes are filled with helium. Up, up, up to the seventh floor, passing prying eyes in corridors.

The audit had made him off-kilter. In Jensen’s absence, he’d been questioned about his illicit activities against the Church, his unethical behaviour, his inappropriate thoughts. Up until today, Jared hasn’t been aware he’s done anything wrong. Sure, he has _thoughts_. Sure, he knows homosexuality is _wrong_. But he didn’t think it was _hurting_ anyone. He was wrong. So, so wrong.

_It’s just a matter of time before you’re declared a PTS._

Jared winces. Other than being an SP, a Potential Trouble Source is about as low on the ethics scale that you can sink. And Jared can’t exactly deny it. He knows he’s been destined for trouble the minute he’d laid eyes on Jensen Ackles. But how is it so obvious to everyone? Somehow, Commander Sheppard can read his reactive mind.

Still, no one gets inside his head like Jensen.

Jared bends at the waist, hands on his knees, pausing for twenty seconds before he’s off again, slipping down hallways, through doorways, around corners. It’s a long, twisting walk to Jensen’s office, but he’s got to get there, got to tell him what happened. That, somehow, the Church is onto them.

When he gets to CMR J. ACKLES’s door, his heart skips a beat. It’s ajar, but no one’s there.

“Jensen?”

Jared pushes in, glancing at the perfectly arranged papers on the desk, at the overcoat hanging flatly on a closet hanger, on the blinking red light on his phone. Something’s not right. It’s too still. Too quiet.

At once, Jared shivers. A cool breeze floats along his skin, giving him goosebumps. As if magnetized, he turns and walks down the hallway, pulled in slow-motion around the corner as blood pounds in his ears… until he sees him…

_Jensen. No._

The fire escape door, the one with a no-stairs seven story drop straight onto L. Ron Hubbard Way, is ajar.

And in its moonlit silhouette stands Jensen, still and steady, letting the night envelop him. He’s going to step off. One wrong gust of wind and he’s gone for good.

“Jensen,” says Jared in a voice quieter than he expected, but he knows Jensen can hear him anyway.

Jensen half-turns, looking over his shoulder and down the hallway at where Jared stands, frozen, like the man on the ledge. There’s desperation in his eyes. A final plea.

“Come back,” says Jared, soft, letting the wind carry his voice to his ears. He watches as dark velvet eyes search him, blinking robotically like he’s somewhere else, out of his body.

He doesn’t budge.

It’s up to Jared now. “I’ll come to you, then.”

The walk seems to take hours. It’s the longest hallway in existence and Jensen’s right at the edge of it, one foot out the door. But Jared steps with purpose, inching his way forward step by step, heartbeat by beat.

At last, he reaches the doorway, but instead of grabbing hold of Jensen and yanking him backwards, he steps into the open doorway with him. The California wind whips his face and his stomach drops when he sees the city lights below. His hand finds Jensen’s, sliding their fingers together until they’re intertwined.

“You can really see the Hollywood sign from here,” says Jared, gazing out over the hills and valleys. The moment is beautiful, in a twisted sort of way. And Jensen’s gazing at him with a mix of astonishment and adoration.

Jared squeezes his hand and smiles before gently tugging him back, inch by inch, into the hallway, until they’re on solid ground again. He shuts the emergency exit door, still not letting go of his hand. Pulls Jensen in, hugs him like he’ll never let go.

Jensen shakes in his arms, muscles quivering from the adrenaline, the conviction, the unexpected intervention.

“Come with me,” hums Jared in his ear before guiding him along the hallway, back into the stairwell and up even higher — up to the eighth floor and into a long-abandoned dormitory where Jared used to sneak catnaps while changing lightbulbs. He leads Jensen to the darkest corner and lays him down on the lumpy mattress.

Jared sleeps beside him that night, arms wrapped so tight around him they go numb.

~~~

They wake at 4am, four hours before Jared is meeting Eduardo to study at The Pacific Cafe. As they stir under the fog of exhaustion, Jared curls Jensen into his body, wrapping him up like a butterfly in cocoon. Presses a kiss to his forehead, which makes silent tears stream from the corners of Jensen’s eyes.

“I love you,” whispers Jared, quiet in the dark, his lips brushing against damp cheeks.

“You pity me.” Jensen’s voice trembles. His body’s tight and in knots that even Jared’s muscles clench in empathy.

Jared lifts his head so their eyes meet. “No, I _love_ you.”

Dark green eyes search his own. Jared leans in, presses a kiss to Jensen’s lips, tastes him, feels the warmth and wetness along the inside of his mouth. They open up and breath into one another, catching tongues and melting beautifully inwards. It’s tender and messy and _agony_.

“You can’t leave me like that,” says Jared between kisses. “Not ever.”

Jensen winces, tasting tears in his mouth. “I won’t.”

“Promise me you’ll never…”

“ _I promise_.”

They stay like that for what feels like hours, until their lips are numb and the California sun begins to bleed its reds and pinks on the horizon.


	18. The Apartment

At a quarter to seven in the morning, they say their goodbyes. Jared helps Jensen back down to his seventh floor office, carefully avoiding the staircase that comes out next to the fire escape, all the while having Jensen reassure him he’s perfectly fine and doesn’t need to go to the hospital and doesn’t have the desire to learn to fly today. One look in Jensen’s eyes says different — they’ve certainly lost some luminescence lately. But there’s also something in them that gives Jared hope — a spark of love and devotion. A forever promise.

At Jensen’s insistence, Jared eventually makes his way back down to ground level. He’s meeting Eduardo to study at eight, so he has an hour to be alone with his thoughts. And as he wanders through the empty halls his brain floods with an immense depression. His body shakes and his head is dizzy, the weight of what he witnessed last night overwhelming him — Jensen hovering on the edge, one step away from… not existing.

And for what? Because of the secrets he holds? Because of what he learned in OT VIII? The Church is meant to _help_ people, not drive them to insanity. The whole thing has Jared rattled. Like he’s got bugs in his brain and skittering under his skin. He needs answers.

He marches down to the front desk of Big Blue. The two receptionists are performing their morning administrative duties. He feels paranoid and antsy, sweat pooling at his temples as he places his hands on the desk. They flash their patented fake smiles and, in perfect unison, sing:

“Good morning!”

Jared avoids their eyes. “Hello, I’d like to see an Audit file please. Jensen Ackles.”

He looks up when he hears soft tittering. The two women are snickering to each other, their eyes wide.

“Those files are confidential,” one says, a disbelieving smile on her face, as if Jared’s completely insane to ask.

“Alright, then, I’d like to see my own file.”

The women exchange glances, smiles fading. They realize Jared isn’t messing around. One of them whispers to the other and leans forward. “I’m sorry, Junior Officer Padalecki, but you’re not at liberty to access Audit files.”

Jared shakes his head. “The file only contains things I’ve said. It’s about _me_. I think I have a right to see it.” His skin is crawling.

The woman smiles again but it rings so false that Jared feels like grabbing her shoulders and shaking her until she shows him something _real_. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

He scratches his fingernails on the wood finish, leaving little marks. “Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. Cocks his head and mocks their faux-happiness, “Thank you _so_ much for your help.”

“You’re welcome!” they chime.

Jared walks away seething. His ears prickle with the sounds of telephone keys clacking at the desk behind him. Suddenly, the air in Big Blue feels so stifling that it’s a relief to step outdoors. Los Angeles is usually beautiful in the morning, with the sunrise and palm trees. Today, it’s heavy with smog pollution, the air so thick he fears suffocation.

As he exits the front gates, he glances over his shoulder, feeling like there are eyes on him. He strides along Fountain and up L Ron Hubbard Way until he reaches The Pacific Cafe. He’s forty-five minutes early for meeting Eduardo, so he orders a coffee at the outdoor kiosk.

He digs in his pocket for a couple of bills and sets them on the counter as the girl pours his coffee. It hits him now how utterly exhausted he is. He scrubs at his eyes, feeling like he hasn’t slept in a year. His head feels so full of jargon — word definitions and rules and chains of command — that he’s afraid it might explode if he tries to cram anything else inside.

The girl returns with his coffee and hands him his change. “Have a great day, Jared.”

Jared half-smiles and turns to find a table. He makes it all of two paces before he freezes. He stares at his coffee cup, at the little loopy _Jared_ written in permanent marker. He turns slowly and faces the smiley barista.

“How do you know my name?”

The barista blinks. Her smile doesn’t falter. “You told me your name, silly.”

Jared blinks twice. He’s almost positive he hadn’t. He’s never seen this girl before in his life. “Okay,” he concedes before turning back to finding a patio table. He plants himself at the one furthest from the counter, tucked in the corner next to some potted ferns.

For nearly an hour, he stares at the cup, running his thumb over the loopy letters of his own name. Doesn’t take a single sip.

“Morning,” says Eduardo, stunning Jared out of his stupor.

“Shit, is it eight?” he says, watching dazedly as Eduardo unpacks his bag, digging out _Dianetics (Edition #8)_ and spreading his notes out on the coffee table.

“Give or take a few. Where are your books?”

Jared blinks. “Oh, uh, I forgot them.”

Eduardo furrows his eyebrows. “Dude, are you okay?”

“Course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look weird,” says Eduardo, bluntly. “Like you’re guilty of something.”

“Guilty of _what_? I haven’t — there’s nothing I —“

“Okay, okay,” says Eduardo, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

The two are quiet for a moment. At last, Eduardo leans in, “Look, if there’s something going on, you can tell me, okay?”

Jared looks into the eyes of his best friend, the one he’s grown up with and confided in for years. The one he’s trusted with his life. And maybe it’s Jared’s own paranoia that’s getting to him, but he really isn’t sure what he sees anymore. What the _truth_ is.

He sighs, letting all the tension out. “Sorry, man. I just didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”

“No worries,” says Eduardo. After another moment’s pause, he presses further. “Are you sure there’s nothing else going on? I’ve, um, heard a few rumours…”

“What rumours?”

Eduardo looks around to see if anyone’s within earshot. “That you’re, um — I don’t really know how to say it, but there’s a rumour going around that you’re… well, that you’re sleeping your way up the Bridge.”

Jared’s heart skips into overdrive. His eyes bulge and his blood runs cold. Everything seems to be crashing in on him. He’s in panic mode. “That’s — that’s not _true_. I’m not —”

“Dude, I know,” says Eduardo. “That’s what I told everyone. No way in hell you’re _queer_.”

Jared blinks in disbelief, trying to process it all. “Who’s telling people this? Where’d you hear it?”

“Dunno,” says Eduardo, casually. “Apparently people’ve seen you wandering around seventh floor. Or that you got into Sea Org so easy because you were doing, um, _favours_ for Action Chiefs.”

“There was nothing _easy_ about getting into Sea Org,” he fumes, clenching his jaw. “Do you see how much I fucking read?”

“Yeah, you’re a lame-ass nerd,” says Eduardo with a chuckle. Then, he gets serious again. Quiets his voice. “You know, no one would blame you, though. If you _did_ do something to get up the Bridge faster…”

Jared squirms. He feels like he’s under the microscope — that every twitch, every movement, every word is being monitored, recorded, analysed. Feeling dazed, he stares off into space and pictures Jensen, the way they were cradled together a mere hour ago. How much Jared had grown to needing him. How much he _loves_ him. His voice cracks slightly when he says, “It’s — it’s not like that…”

When Jared refocuses back on their conversation, Eduardo’s eyes are wide, looking like he’s piecing things together. Something gossip-worthy. Something to report to the higher-ups.

“Never mind,” says Jared, shaking his head like an Etch-a-Sketch. “Can we just study now?”

“Sure,” says Eduardo, his demeanour markedly different from when he’d first sat down. He gets up, gesturing to his backpack. “Gonna get a coffee. You can borrow whatever books you want.”

As Jared watches his friend order from the mind-reader, he’s overcome with an incredible sinking feeling, like his whole world is about to unravel and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. With shaky fingers, he picks up Eduardo’s tattered copy of _Dianetics_ , flips open to a random page and reads:

_The random counter-effects to an organism and the intermingled perceptions in the randomity can re-exert that force upon an organism when restimulated._

He pinches the bridge of his nose and scrunches up his face, feels like his brain’s about to explode. It all sounds like such gibberish, a made up language.

Science fiction.

He flips the page. He’s going all crossy-eyed.

_You are a spirit._   
_You are your own soul._   
_You are not mortal._

_You can be free._

~~~

Two days later and Jared’s still looking over his shoulder. Everywhere he goes, it feels like there are eyes on him. He can’t explain it. He knows it’s irrational. Knows he’s not interesting enough to warrant constant surveillance. But still, he’s got a sneaking suspicion that he’s being watched in the most intimate ways possible.

It’s dinnertime at the Renaissance Restaurant and Jared nearly jumps out of his chair when someone, Chad Murray, to be exact, claps down hard on his shoulders.

“Whoa, big guy, did I scare ya?”

“Nah,” says Jared, lying through his teeth as he composes himself. “Just a bit out of it.”

Chad sits down opposite Jared and motions to Erica, who quickly joins them. Jared hasn’t seen much of his Sea Org compatriots since their docking, but he’s heard through the grapevine that Chad and Erica are not-so-secretly sleeping together.

“All the rumours getting to you?” chides Chad.

“Rumours?” says Jared, casually, like he hasn’t already gotten the scoop from Eduardo. “What rumours?”

Chad and Erica exchange a look. “You haven’t heard? They’re doing a complete overhaul of upper management. A lot of the Action Chiefs are being reassigned.”

“Reassigned? Where? To do what?”

“Gold Base, I think,” says Erica. “I overheard Commander Davis talking about it… how Killian is sending all of ‘em down to San Jacinto for retraining.”

“All — all of them?”

Chad grabs a handful of Jared’s cold fries and stuffs them in his mouth. “Pretty much. Everly, Poole, Bogdanovich, O’Grady, Ackles…”

Jared inhales sharply when he hears that name, so cold and unfamiliar on Chad’s tongue.

_He can’t get sent away… he can’t…_

The thought of Jared in Los Angeles alone, no clandestine meetings or hanging back after class, no audits or Sec Checks that turn lovely… it’s too much to bear.

Jared pushes his seat out and abruptly stands, causing Erica to jump. “I — I’ve got to go…”

Chad pauses mid-chew. “Okaaay…”

Ignoring the puzzled looks on their faces, Jared turns and hightails it out of the restaurant and back into Big Blue, making a beeline for the seventh floor.

When he arrives, Jensen’s office is locked.

“Come on, open up,” says Jared, knocking on the door, scanning the hallway left and right for observers. Far as he can tell, he’s alone up there.

He bites his lip and reaches in his back pocket for his wallet, takes out a small bobby pin he’s had in there since living with his step-father in Silicon Valley, when escaping from locked bedrooms had been a highly prized skill. Making certain there’s no one watching, he leans against the door frame, obscuring the knob from view, and inserts the pin into the keyhole.

It only takes him about a minute and a half, he’s rusty, but he manages to get in. Jensen’s office is dark and deserted, the sunset coming in through his window and casting everything in a dull orange glow. He steps inside and quietly shuts the door behind him, tiptoeing around the desk. After a moment of hesitation, he pulls open the top few drawers, rifling through papers until he finds what he is looking for — Jensen’s address.

_Jensen Ackles_

_37 North Alexandria Avenue_

_Thai Town, Los Angeles_

Jared commits it to memory and slips out of the office.

~~~

Outside, it’s getting dark as Jared reaches the nearest bus stop and traces his finger up Sunset, past Hollywood Boulevard, until he comes to a stop on North Alexandria just before Franklin.

_There._

The route takes him all of fifteen minutes to walk — he knows a shortcut through Barnsdall Art Park and his legs are long and limber. At last, he comes to 37 North Alexandria. It’s a little walkup apartment in the heart of Thai Town, nothing special. Jensen’s on a Sea Org salary, after all. His heart thumps as he knocks three times on the door, the evening breeze ruffling the hair around his ears.

A minute later, Jensen Ackles opens the door.

He’s beautiful and sad, somehow. Heart heavy and world-weary. Still, he’s the most gorgeous creature Jared’s ever seen in acid-wash Tommy jeans and a stretched out tee.

“Jared? What’re you —“

“Are you leaving?” he demands, with a churlish cock of his head. “Are you being reassigned?”

Jensen sighs. “Come inside.”

Jared follows him in, brushing past and bumping Jensen’s shoulder more brusquely than he’d planned. He can’t afford to be angry tonight. Not if it might be their last…

He can’t bear to think about it.

Instead, he scans around the little hallway, sparsely decorated, but homey nonetheless. There are little self-framed works of art on the walls and not a paint chip in sight.

“Well, sit your ass down, if you wanna talk,” says Jensen in a huff. He seems as resigned and annoyed as Jared is, which somehow calms Jared. To know he isn’t the only one feeling the injustice of it all.

Jared sits in a velvet green chair that looks like it’s been repurposed from an old funeral parlour. There are spider plants scattered around the living room, a few cacti in the windowsill, and an acoustic guitar in the corner. Jared’s belly warms thinking about Jensen here in the warm evening, plucking at the strings and playing pretty notes. It’s nice.

Jensen sits in a chair across from him, scratching his fingers on the edge of the arm rests, searching for the right words. When he can’t find them, Jared jumps in,

“So, is it true? Are you leaving?”

Jensen sighs. “Yes. Captain Killian is shipping some of the Action Chiefs up to Gold Base for retraining.”

“When?”

He drops his head. “Bus leaves at 5am.”

It takes everything in Jared’s power not to explode. Not to freak out and yell and call Jensen every name in the book. Not that it’s his fault. But Jared’s been an expert at controlling himself and holding things in ever since he’d left Hawaii. So when he finally speaks, it’s soft and strained. “Were you going to tell me?”

Jensen looks up. There are near-tears making his eyes glassy. “I… I don’t know. I didn’t know what to —“

“You weren’t gonna tell me, Jensen?” says Jared, louder now. “You weren’t gonna tell me that you’re leaving?”

“I didn’t want to _burden_ you!” cries Jensen in an outburst. He sits forward in his chair, almost pleading. “After the other night… I didn’t want you to worry about me. I mean, Jared, _my God_ , I’ve already gotten you way too far into this thing!”

Jared sits forward too, itching to be closer. “ _You’ve_ gotten me in too far?” Jared shakes his head. “Jensen, don’t you get it? We’re in this together. And I can’t go back — I can’t go back, even if I wanted to.”

Jensen shakes his head, scrubs at his eyes to try to reset himself. “Where I’m going… it’s — I wanted to protect you from all that…”

Jared bristles. “Protect me from what? Please, tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t,” he stammers, looking like he’s about to come apart at the seams. “You’ll get hurt.” He winces, feeling physical pain from holding everything inside. “I thought if I just… _went away_ … you’d be safe again.”

“What’s the point of being safe and alone?” bites Jared, his lip trembling. “What’s the fucking point if we can’t be together?” He’s on the edge of his seat now. “Jensen, this thing between us? I’m all in. I’m all in, forever.”

Jensen’s face crumbles at those promise-words. He slips onto floor and crawls forward to kneel at Jared’s feet, tucks himself so beautifully right between his thighs. Buries himself there for awhile. “ _Jared…_ ”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, cradling and stroking Jensen’s head, his cheeks, his hair. Hugging him close and wrapping him up tight. He lifts Jensen’s head by the chin and fastens a teary kiss to his trembling lips. It’ll never be like this. It’ll never be as good. As _pure_.

It’s a kiss to clear the planet. To save the world.

Only the two of them left in it.

They embrace like nothing can ever come between them. Like they’re _safe_ somehow, right here in Jensen’s apartment. Like they can play at being normal people. Not immoral nor illegal nor aberrant, but as though they were each reborn on this earth — in this time, in this place — with the sole purpose to find each other.

After a minute of desperate kisses, of scrabbling at T-shirts and belt loops, they somehow make it into the bedroom, falling lovely on top of each other in the bed. Jared pins him to mattress, gentle, and floats over him, pausing to just _look_. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“What is it?” Jensen whispers, laying underneath him with his green eyes and flushed cheeks and clothes half off. And, god, Jared can scarcely believe how beautiful he is. It’s like a miracle. A rarity. A once in a lifetime.

“I love you,” he says, gazing down at him with hearts in his eyes.

Jensen blinks twice, his eyes soft. “You said that yesterday morning.”

Jared smiles. “I meant it yesterday morning and I mean it now. I _love_ you.”

It feels so easy to say. So natural and all-encompassing. All warm and perfect because he can _feel_ Jensen’s heart beating.

Jensen is stunned into silence, opening and closing his mouth, searching for something in Jared’s eyes. And when he finds it he surges upward, catching Jared in the most devastating kiss they’ve ever shared. It makes Jared weak at the knees.

Things move quickly from there — clothes are shucked off and tossed to the floor, kisses become hotter and heavier, flesh on flesh, skin on skin. When Jared leaves a little pool of want on Jensen’s belly, he knows they’re both ready. Jensen leans over and opens his bedside drawer.

“Here,” he says, rubbing lubrication onto Jared’s fingers. “I want you inside…”

Jared’s heart hitches. He takes a deep breath, head spinning and blood thrashing in his veins. He moves his fingers down between Jensen’s legs, which ever-so-slightly part for him. With shaky fingers, he rubs around Jensen’s entrance, watching his eyes flutter and his chest heave at the gentle press of Jared’s fingertips. He circles around the sensitive spot, listening to Jensen’s breathy little gasps and trying not to push too hard, too fast.

“Please, Jared,” Jensen whimpers, mewling. “ _Inside_.”

Jared’s chest quivers with nervous lust as he bends his middle finger and slowly pushes in, past the tight spongey ring and into velvet bliss. He watches, rapt, as Jensen’s mouth falls open and his eyes roll back with initial penetration.

“You’re beautiful,” says Jared, sliding his finger out and back in again, pressing and stretching gently. “God, Jensen, you have no idea how beautiful…”

Jensen’s eyelashes flutter at that — at the praise from his young recruit, who just showed up in his life and wrenched the door open, forced him to step out into the world and live in it. He melts under Jared, who’s pressing a second finger in now, sculpting and moulding a space for himself, because there’s no way on earth he’s leaving Los Angeles without this — without them loving each other so deeply, so _raw_ and so beautiful. He’ll die without this, he knows.

“Jared…” he sighs between kisses, blinking up into loverboy brown eyes. And Jared can read between the lines at the corners of his eyes, the unspoken desire and giving over of control, of permission.

Jared nods. Whispers, “Okay” and reaches again for Jensen’s drawer, rubbing the slippery salve over his achy dick and sliding into place, nudging Jensen’s pretty hole with the throbbing head.

Jared falters, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Me neither.” Jensen scoots underneath him to get the angle right. Wraps his legs around Jared’s waist and pulls him close. His eyes soften and his cheeks blush pink. “But, god, I’ve been waiting for you for so long, Jared. For lifetimes…”

Jared’s belly flips at those words. He grasps at Jensen’s hand and pins it with his own, their fingers as entwined as their hearts. He takes a breath and then presses forward, feeling the sweet slide in past the tight ring of muscle, Jensen’s velvet, tight _heat_ enveloping him, inch by inch, ridge by ridge.

“ _Ohh_ ,” they moan in tandem at the sweet penetration, the giving in at long last.

Jared shudders as he slides further, nearly comes when he bottoms out, all-encompassed in the tight, wet heat of Jensen’s body.

“Don’t stop,” hushes Jensen through half-gritted teeth. He’s wincing and finger-pressing at Jared’s back, squeezing his thighs together as he gets used to the fullness, the _completeness_ , the letting someone _in_. After all these years…

Jared’s whole body quivers as he rocks his hips and slides so sweetly _out_ and _in_ and _out-in_ again, shuddering at the silk-sweet slide of Jensen’s insides. He’s so warm, so slippery, so _tight_. It’s ecstasy. It’s everything he’s ever dreamed of. And it’s going to be over much too soon. Because there’s no way in hell Jared’s lasting much longer.

He squeezes Jensen’s hand in his own, pinning it above his head and really ramping up his thrusts, giving Jensen the good dicking he’s been craving all these years — the high-pitched keens indicating that Jared’s not hurting him, that he’s hit the perfect stride for a first time.

And Jensen, oh god _Jensen_ , just melts beneath him, going soft and pliant and clinging to Jared like the earth is falling to pieces around them, whimper-moaning into Jared’s mouth and letting out weak _ah-ah-ahhhs._ There are tears in his eyes and love-sounds on his tongue.

“Love you…” Jensen whispers at last, through trembly lips and Jared can’t help himself — he erupts in euphoric bliss, coming pearl-white inside pretty pink, shaking and shivering and knowing that nothing else on earth can ever compare to this, not in a billion years.

He quivers from the orgasm, but stays inside as he softens, lets go of Jensen’s hand and slides it around his cock instead, pulling pretty at it until it starts to leak and _oh-oh-ohhh_ Jensen is coming too, coating his own belly as much as Jared’s fist. And when they’re both finished, Jared collapses at his side, burying himself in the safe space at the crook of Jensen’s neck and clinging to him for dear life.

“Don’t go…” hums Jared into his skin. Licks at salt and sweat. “Please, don’t go.”

There are trembling fingers in his hair and tear drops on his cheek.


	19. The Goodbye

At a quarter past four the next morning, after a night spent half-sleeping and soaked in each other’s love, the two of them, achy and heartbroken, make their way back down Jensen’s hallway towards the front door. Before Jared gets there, Jensen reaches out and tugs at his T-shirt like he doesn’t want to let go. Jared turns around, knowing full well he must look like a sad puppy dog. Jensen, too, looks woe-be-gotten — mussed hair, stretched out clothes and dark lines under his eyes — but there’s a spark in his eye and his smile is one of satiation. Of satisfaction and of soulmates.

“Wait here,” he says to Jared, who’s hovering on the threshold.

Jensen disappears into the kitchen and returns a moment later with something. “The special mission,” he says, his mouth full of marbles, “I might be gone for awhile.” He pushes the object into Jared’s hand.

It’s a cell phone. “What’s this for?”

“In case you need me,” he says, closing Jared’s fingers around the phone. “Leave a message, but don’t give your name or anything else to identify you.”

Jared frowns as Jensen’s fingers start to pull away. He grabs his wrist with his free hand, holding it there. “Where are you going? For how long?” He crowds Jensen’s space, placing two hands on either side of the wall, gently trapping and towering over him. Jensen always looks so much smaller, so much _softer_ , outside the line of duty. Jared loves that about him.

Jensen shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Jared swallows. Unwittingly, he thinks not only of last night, but of fire escape doors wrenched open, and seven story free falls. “Will you be okay? Tell me you’re not gonna —“

Jensen cuts him off with a kiss, desperate and deep. It sweeps him off his feet. And it’s reassurance, matched by the resolve in his eyes. “I won’t disappear, I promise.” He breathes out, painting Jared’s lips with perfume. Puts his hand on Jared’s heart. “I’ve got something worth being here for.”

Jared kisses him like it’s their last time, until Jensen pulls away, squeezes Jared’s hand and steps back.

“Go now. Get back to your apartment before anyone figures out where you’ve been.”

Jared nods, tears in his eyes. “Be careful. And come back.”

“I will.”

“Don’t forget me,” he says, with one last smile.

“Not possible.”

~~~

As Jared heads back down Sunset, the morning air brushing against his cheek and the taste of Jensen still on his tongue, he’s overcome with panicked adrenaline, the sudden urge of fight or flight. Just underneath the butterflies in his belly is a terrible sinking feeling that he won’t ever see Jensen again. He tells himself he’s crazy, that he’s imagining things. That the imprints Jensen’s fingertips left on his skin are clouding his judgment, flooding his mind with soft kisses and tender touches, sweet little whispers and _forget me nots_. It’s enough to make his head spin.

He circles around the streets and doubles back twice, he’s so disoriented and dizzy with their first time. Nearly forgets his way back home, back to the Church, away from Jensen…

Nothing feels right. Nothing feels real.

Eventually he reaches the Christie Hotel, itching to collapse onto his twin bed and sleep for days.

He doesn’t even make it onto the stairs of the building before two men he’s never seen before grab him.

“Come with us.”

It’s not quite dawn and Jared’s powerless to fight back, his bones aching and exhausted. The men usher him down the street and around the corner, all the while he’s still trying to find his footing.

They open up the back of a white transport van. There are people inside, seated dejectedly on the floor. He recognizes a few of them from his classes.

“Get in,” the men say, gesturing to the double doors.

“Why?” Jared replies, not budging. His fists clench at his sides, his muscles flex. _Resist_.

“Because, you’ve committed sins against the Church of Scientology,” they say, robotically. “You’ve been declared a PTS and must undergo rehabilitation before you may return to the Sea Org.”

“PTS?” No way he’s a _Potential Trouble Source_. “There’s been a mistake…”

One of the men shoves him roughly from behind, his elbow making a sickening _crack_ sound against Jared’s shoulder blade. He ricochets forward, smashing his knees on the bumper and stumbling forward into the van. The second man steps forward to help the first man shove Jared into the cabin and slam the door behind him.

It’s dark inside, save for a small window at the top of the double doors. He bangs on it, screaming and howling in pain.

“ _LET ME OUT! LET ME THE FUCK OUT!”_

He hears the driver’s door open and close, hears the ignition catch and the engine roar, then they’re off. Jared nearly stumbles over the other PTS people as the van rocks and rolls along the palm-tree lined streets. When it slows down again and beeps twice, Jared grabs the handrail and peers out the back window.

The sun is rising over the Church of Scientology of Los Angeles, fire red and smoggy. As the van drives past Big Blue, Jared watches as a few Sea Org recruits carrying rucksacks make their way into headquarters to start their day.

And he wonders — where did it all go so wrong?

It’ll be four hours of jostling in the dark before he arrives at his final destination, a rehabilitation centre called The Ranch. Three hours until he’s ordered to permanently Disconnect from the Action Chief known as Jensen Ackles. Until he’s told that Commander Ackles is an obstacle to Jared’s spiritual advancement. That the only course of action is to shun him, cut him off and leave him to wander alone.

It all sounds like bullshit to Jared.

But he’ll bide his time, holding Jensen in his heart and the burner phone in his pocket, until they can find each another again. Until they can start fresh and find their own Bridge to Total Freedom.


	20. The Ranch

_April, 1994.  
Undisclosed Location, California_

There are many names for the place where Jared is sent: The Ranch, Castile Canyon School, the RPF.

Jared’s favourite is “Happy Valley.”

About 20 miles south of Scientology Headquarters, just east of San Jacinto, there’s a grand expanse of unincorporated land: 500 acres of dirt, dust, and broken dreams. The Ranch. People, _trouble-makers_ , are sent there for rehabilitation — to get their heads on straight and back on the right path. It’s a meditative retreat, they say. A mind reset, a second chance. But, as Jared can attest, there’s nothing remotely calming about being jostled around in the back of an unmarked van while barrelling up a dirt road into a Gulagian camp.

He has a bad feeling about this.

When he first arrives, he’s assigned a bunk, a schedule, and an Ethics Officer. Roll call is every morning at 6h05 sharp, full uniforms are mandatory. Warden Kelly Dixon, a Moldovan woman who’s as fat as she is tall, makes an appearance once a week, hitting at peoples’ shins with her walking stick. There are other PTS’s there too — a few from his courses, kids as young as three, one he recognizes from the _Freewinds_ , and some adults who’ve been there so long their skin sags on tired bones.

Happy Valley is Hell on earth.

Four days in RPF (Rehabilitation Project Force) and Jared’s eyes are swimming. Gone bone dry from re-reading _Dianetics: Redux_ for hours on end, wet again with false tears when a compressed air canister of Dust-Off explodes like mustard gas. They burn as he scrubs door handles with toothbrushes and collapses on piss-smelling mattresses. Five hours sleep over four nights. This is meditation. Rehabilitation.

He’s better off than some of the others. See, Jared is only there to prepare to re-enter the Sea Org. Not someone who’d been dropped off and abandoned for getting in the way, for distracting their parents from clearing the planet. No. Those kids — the kids with bugs in their hair — are on the disgraced path to becoming SPs. _Suppressive Persons_.

Jared’s gut clenches. It’s all fine. He’s just PTS. But if he doesn’t take to rehab, he can get declared an SP too. So he keeps his head down, digs ditches till his arms fall off, moves piles of rocks from one end of camp to the other and back again, refusing to question the insanity, the madness, the utter futility. Ignores all of his self-doubt and the nagging questions in his brain — What are they all _doing_ here? How is this helping?

The only thing he knows for certain is he’s got to get out of here. Fast. Before he gets used to it.

He’s so tired already. It would be so easy to get used to it.

~~~

_BRIIIIING. BRIIIIING._

At the 6am bell, Jared jolts awake in his shared top bunk, bumping his head on the wooden ceiling for the thirty-sixth day in a row.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, rubbing at the lump. He should know better by now. He swings his legs around, avoiding heads and other limbs from the bunkbeds below, and shimmies down into the one foot gap between bunks. _Thump, thump._ The floor is cold. He throws on his boiler-suit and boots in thirty-seconds flat.

Ready to atone. To get his mind right.

He’s a new assignee, under strict watch, so he waits for his friend (another newbie, Marty Knowles) before checking in for breakfast. Soggy eggs, burned sausage, gummy gruel. It forms a nasty paste in his mouth. He swallows it down in three minutes and sprints out to the lawn for roll call. It’ll be six hours of deck work until their next meal. Jared’s muscles are still sore from running laps and yesterday’s pushups. Belly empty, brain fuzzy, spirit broken.

By 6h05, the entire camp is assemble and in formation. When the second bell sounds, they shout in unified chorus:

“THE RPF IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. THE RPF IS WHERE WE MAKE IT.”

Jared’s on groundskeeping duty again. It’s okay. He actually likes flowers. Potting, planting, pulling weeds. Getting his hands dirty. It’s the best he can hope for, backbreaking labour in the blazing-hot sun. The seeds he’d sown last month are beginning to sprout. New growth, new life.

At lunchtime, after the RPF Higher-Ups are finished their meals, the aberrants descend upon the dining hall like ravenous lions, picking at table scraps and scouring plates for leftovers. It’s always a mad rush, chaotic, frenzied. Sucking on chicken bones just to get the taste of meat. Gulping down half-drank glasses of milk.

Fifteen minutes till muster.

“THE RPF IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. THE RPF IS WHERE WE MAKE IT.”

They run upstairs, tear their clothes off, and line up for the showers. Thirty seconds, in and out. Five minutes allotted for hygiene. Then back into their civies for five hours of study — daily audits and Sec Checks, assigned readings, essays and audiotapes.

It’s mental exhaustion. Enough to make you collapse, sweat-ridden and sleep deprived. All you can do is try to shut your brain off for five hours until the next wake up call. Pray you don’t get dragged out of bed for midnight confession.

~~~

There isn’t much to do for fun. There are no TVs, no cassettes or radios, no pencils or pens. The only happy time they have is in the bunkhouse at night, where they fight over a ragged old pack of cards with the Jack of Hearts missing, or place penny bets on midnight games of Tiddlywinks.

There’s a letter-writing period at eleven o’ clock every night, where you’re permitted to sit in the mess hall and write notes to your loved ones, telling them you’re doing great and that rehab is really working for you and how much you love it here. Everything is screened before it’s mailed, of course, so you have to be careful about what you say.

Jared can’t write the letters he wants to write — first of all, he has no idea where Jensen is located, and second of all, the things he wants to say can’t possibly be written on paper for the higher-ups to see. So Jared uses the time to close his eyes and write letters in his head. He takes out a pencil, hovers the lead a half-inch above the page, and loops his love notes and lust poems. At the end of each session, when he hands the guards a blank sheet of paper, all they can do is stare.

They already think Jared’s crazy.

One month of letter-writing has Jared going mad. He’s got so many things to say, so many words inscribed on his bones, rattling around his brain like loose change. So, laying awake at 2am one night, he digs in his duffle bag side pocket for his hidden burner phone, his one link to the outside world. He cocoons himself under the covers and turns on the device, the battery only half-depleted from inactivity. Scrolls to the only number saved inside and hits “Call.”

_Ring-ring-ring._

His heart pounds like his fingers on the phone keys. There’s no way Jensen will answer. He’s too disconnected. Too busy. But Jared’s content to leave messages — not written on the page, but spelled out in whispers, transmitted through the air in electromagnetic waves.

_Click._

The voicemail starts.

_“This is Jensen Ackles. Leave a message.”_

The silence speaks volumes.

“Hi, it’s me,” Jared breathes, after a long moment. There are more pauses, more white noises, than a usual call, but he’s careful to leave space for Jensen to listen, _really listen_. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to call. Had to hear your voice.” In the in-between, Jared imagines Jensen is there with him, hovering on the other line, breathing in sync. “It’s awful here. Worse than I thought. And, I — I miss you, Jensen. I miss you so much…” He trails off, voice quieting to a whispered plea, “Where are you?”

_Beep!_

The voicemail cuts him off, some two-minute time limit bullshit. So Jared, tucked up under his sheet and whisper-quiet, dials him again, waits for the beep and continues on, spelling out his unwritten letters in beautiful dictations — call after call, redials and reminiscing.

When Jensen’s mailbox gets full, Jared closes his eyes and holds the phone to his heart.


	21. The Break-In

“ _WAKE UP!_ ”

A hand slams down on the mess hall table right next to Jared’s head, the sound cracking like a whip in his ears, vibrations rattling his skull. He lifts his head to see his angry-looking Ethics Officer standing by the table.

“You think LRH’s words are _boring_ , Padalecki?” he drawls, nodding at the _Dianetics_ textbook Jared had unwittingly fallen asleep on while reading. He blinks. The last thing he remembers is his eyes drooping so much they got sticky.

“No,” says Jared, too exhausted to muster up any sort of apology. He goes back to pretend-reading, fully aware his Ethics Officer is hovering over him, staring.

“I think Fredericks needs some help with file storage,” sneers the officer, grabbing at Jared’s hair and lifting his head to meet his gaze. Jared feels anger rip through him. Can feel fire in his eyes. “Four hours in the shed should wake you up.”

They send Jared out to the little tool shed at the edge of the camp, the one that holds all the old Ranch correspondence: tax receipts, audit records, and other trash. As soon as he opens the door, the smell of musk and mould hits his nose so hard he gags. It’s dark in there, save for a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, covered in cobwebs and dead flies.

Johann Fredericks, a long-haired veteran of the the Ranch, is there to greet him. He’s probably no older than forty-five, but the years of hard labour has made him look about sixty. “You here to work or to whack off?”

Jared raises an eyebrow. “Can I choose?”

Fredericks eyes him carefully before breaking into a chuckle. “I _like_ you,” he grins, making his blond moustache go all twitchy. “Okay, start over in the corner, second-shelf from the bottom. Pull out any of the catalogues and sort the receipts by date, got it?”

Jared nods, “Yeah.”

He spends two hours on his knees in the dark shed, flipping through countless receipts for bundles of rope, permanent markets, two-by-fours and low-grade toothpaste. All the pithy items they make RPFers work (and then pay) for at the commissary. Every now and then he sees some handwritten scrawl in the top-right page corner:

_The Hole_.

“What’s _the Hole_?” he asks after the fifth spotting.

Fredericks sighs, shakes his head. “Boy, you can get in a lot of trouble for asking about that.”

Jared scoffs. “I’m already _in_ trouble. I’m _here_. Are you gonna tell me or not?”

Fredericks doesn’t skip a beat. He turns to Jared like he’s telling an old ghost story around the campfire. “The Hole is a prison. It’s where the highest Sea Org officers go when they’ve strayed from the path.”

“So, kind of like here?”

Fredericks goes back to shuffling papers. “You said it, not me. Anyway, the Ranch is a summer vacation compared to the Hole.”

“What do you mean?”

“You ever read _Fight Club_? The Hole is like that. Put fifty guys in an old storage hangar — no food, no water, no sleep — and tell ‘em to fight each other for survival… Things go south pretty quick.”

Jared balks. “What? That doesn’t make any — Why don’t they just fight back?”

Fredericks sighs. “You don’t get it. They take you and they break you down, piece by piece. It’s torture shit. Screaming at you, food deprivation, motherfuckin’ “Bohemian Rhapsody” on loop for days.” He shakes his head. “What you’ve got to understand is that, by the time they’re done with you, you’ve got no fight _left_.”

Jared blinks, trying to comprehend the madness of it all. “How do you know all this?”

Fredericks turns and looks him square in the eye. “Cause I’ve been there. Couple years ago. Used to be an Action Chief. I got taken out of the Hole for four broken ribs. Couldn’t breathe.” He wheezes, looking around the moldy old shed. “Then they sent me here. And I thank Hubbard every day for it.”

Jared turns back to the corner of the page, staring at the hen-scratch in the corner. Something inside him begins to tingle. A radar goes off. Anger builds, spreading through him like a virus. He clenches his teeth. “Where is it?”

“Somewhere down South. Not too far from here. In the mountains around Gold Base,” says Fredericks. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

~~~

One night, just as the sun is setting, Jared’s raking up rocks around the Head Office cabin when his ears perk up. He hears a familiar voice. _His_ voice.

Jensen Ackles.

“ _The Church of Scientology is a religious institution and should therefore receive all the constitutional tax exemptions that other organized religions enjoy.”_

Jared whips around the corner and ducks under an open window, where the voice is coming from. Is he here? Is he okay? Is he on a mission? Careful to not draw attention to himself, Jared peeks in through the window. One of the admins is watching the CBS news — a package on Scientology’s fight for tax-exemption, filmed on the steps of some courthouse in downtown Los Angeles — and who else is being interviewed but Jensen Ackles.

Jared’s heart skips a beat. It’s been months since he’s heard his voice, seen his face. Wonders where he’s been and what he’s going through. And Jared aches for him. Because he knows how beautiful Jensen is when he’s happy. But the man he sees on television right now… well, Jared’s skin crawls with how harrowed he looks — sallow cheeks and dark eyes, thinner (much thinner) than the last time, and speaking with a cold edge to his voice, a cry for help.

“ _Like I said, the Church is seeking nothing more than the constitutional freedoms other organized religions in the United States are allowed. Anything less is religious persecution and, mark my words, we won’t stand for it.”_

Jared shivers. Jensen is an Action Chief for a reason. There’s a certain callousness in his expression, a shifty change in demeanour, when he’s steadfast about something — when he attempts to bring others under his control. Jared’s never felt that way with Jensen. Never felt anything but warmth and goodness and purity. He misses him.

The voice abruptly stops with the harsh _snap_ of the television knob. Jared ducks back around the corner and continues his half-hearted sweeping, dreaming about green eyes and pale skin, freckles and belly laughs. Where _is_ he? What’s he doing? Why did they send him away? There are too many unanswered questions, too many loose ends and inconsistencies. It’s time for Jared to get to the bottom of it.

It’s time he does some soul-searching of his own.

~~~

Jared’s got a wicked plan. It’s not a great plan nor a foolproof plan. But it’s the only plan he’s got.

There’s a girl named Vera, two years younger with pretty black hair, who looks at Jared like he’s the most perfect creature on earth. She adores him, lusts after him, follows him around when they’re lifting rocks across the lawn. In other words, she’s the perfect partner in crime.

One evening, after he’s dug enough ditches to make him rebellious, he nods to Vera across the mess table. “Wanna go somewhere tonight?”

She beams, cheeks flushing. “Yeah, okay.”

At a quarter past ten, just after the sun disappears and the sky goes dark, they meet outside their bunk and make their way across the grounds.

“Where are we going?” she whispers, giddy as she struggles to keep up with his long strides.

“Head Office,” he says, figuring she’s in this now, she might as well know what she’s in for. “There’s something in there I need. You’re gonna be my lookout.”

“Oh.” Vera deflates slightly, but she still trots along at Jared’s heels.

They slip across the grounds in the dark, keeping quiet, low and in the shadows, until they reach the front office. Jared takes a bobby-pin from Vera’s hair and picks the lock easily.

“Wait here,” he says, gives her a peck on the cheek for good measure. “Tell me if you see anyone.”

She nods once and blushes, taking up her post at the door.

Inside the office, Jared makes a beeline for the filing cabinet, where all the important memos are kept. He knows this because he’s been planting flowers around the edge of the building for days and he overhears things.

There are too many papers to count, but at least they’re more organized than Fredericks’ file storage shed. He flips to a folder labeled “External Correspondence” and rifles through, holding a flashlight in his mouth and praying no one can see the beam of light illuminating the office.

Vera shuffles at the door. If Jared wasn’t in such a hurry, he would feel bad about putting her in this position. If they get caught, who knows what the officers will do to punish them.

Jared’s hands shake as he flips through the papers, looking for anything that might point to where Jensen is.

“Come on, Jared, let’s _go_ ,” she pleads.

Jared ignores her, his ears pulsing with blood and heartbeats. Because he’s here and everything’s at his fingertips and he may never get this chance again and —

Suddenly, he spots it. A memo dating back to two weeks ago. He snatches it from the file folder and scans the first paragraph.

_Gold Base Communications Office  
Borrego Springs, California_

_Re: Policy #47 — Suppressive Persons (Update #3)_

_After the second round of Sec Checks, the Gold Base Ethics Commissioner requests the following Action Chiefs be held at The Hole for an additional 60 days, due to unethical behaviour that will increase their risk of becoming SPs:_

_Ron Goldsmith_   
_Peter Lehman_   
_Narcissa Faulkner_   
_Jensen Ackles_

Jared stares at his name — the twelve letters laid out like a promise. The paper trembles in his hands.

“We gotta _go_ , someone’s coming!”

Vera’s voice snaps him out of it. He stuffs the single page into his shirt and shuts the filing cabinet. Clicks his flashlight off and joins her at the door. There are shadows moving on the grounds, creeping and stalking, looking for them.

_Someone’s out of bed._

“This way,” says Jared, pulling at Vera’s sleeve and tugging her towards the back exit. They slip outside, quiet as mice, and duck behind the building, watching and waiting with bated breath until the dark shadows disappear around corners.

They wait there another minute, still as stones, just to be sure there won’t be an ambush. The grounds are quiet save for the crickets.

“Okay, coast is clear.”

They creep along the edge of the building until they reach the opposite corner. There’s about one-hundred and fifty feet of open ground until they reach the bunkhouses. They get about thirty feet across when —

_SNAP._

Floodlights illuminate the grounds, blinding them and leaving no place to hide.

“ _Fuck_ ,” curses Jared as he sets off at a sprint, Vera right on his heels. His lungs are bursting with nervous energy and _fire_ as he burns across the lawn — fifty feet, seventy-five, one hundred — _faster, faster, come on_ — one twenty-five, _one fifty_.

They nearly slam into the doorway, they’re moving so fast, but Jared slows just in time to crack it open and whip Vera inside the bunkhouse, shutting it as quiet as possible behind them. The only sounds are snores and heavy breathing as they slump against the door, trying to catch their breath.

“D’you think they saw us?”

“No,” Jared offers, although his belly tenses and his head spins. It’s the best he can hope for, at least.

After a minute, there are rustles and movements in the bunk. When Jared’s eyes adjust, he can see Marty sit up.

“What’s going on?” he says, rubbing his eyes.

“Nothing,” whispers Jared, climbing into his own bunk. “Go back to sleep.”

Marty’s out like a log before his head hits the pillow.

As for Jared, it takes awhile to settle his mind, to clear the adrenaline from his muscles, rest his bones. At a quarter past two, he liberates the stolen memo from his shirt and re-reads it in the dark. Jensen is _alive_ and being held at the Hole for ethics. Jared grits his teeth, makes sure to memorize the address.

_Borrego Springs, California_.

Tomorrow, he’ll burn the letter with his matchstick collection. But, tonight, he closes his eyes and sighs with relief, hugs the memo to his chest and thinks of his lover, about the day they’ll reunite.

He kisses Jensen’s name on the page, tucks it under his pillow, and drifts asleep at long last.


	22. The Basement

Jared spends the entirety of the next day looking over his shoulder, convinced that a uniformed man will appear out of nowhere and snatch him away for breaking and entering. For crimes against Scientology. It’s funny, he’s always turned his nose up at SPs, always thought they were evil criminals. But the more he peels back the layers of this thing they call the Church, the more he understands mutineers — those given letter-labels like PTS and SP. He gets it now. That, sometimes, people have to make hard choices. That there are things more important than memorizing _Dianetics_. Things that make you question steadfastly obeying rules and toeing the line.

Sometimes, in order to save the world, you have to turn yours upside down.

Jared shakes his head as he shovels rocky debris out of an old drainage ditch, rocks dumped there by yesterday’s task force, who take a sadistic pleasure in making messes for RPFers to clean up. To give them something to do. Part of Jared wishes he could go back to the days when life was easy. When all he did was study, take courses, and attend audits. When his only purpose was working his way up the Bridge.

But that wish would be a lie. Because, each day he’s stuck here he realizes, it’s never been easy, not once. Not the countless hours of studying till his eyes bled, nor the volunteer shifts at the museum, nor divulging every intimate detail of his sex life to strangers. All of it, even his Sea Org training, has led to this — to moving piles of rocks from one end of the yard to the other.

It’s madness. And he wonders if there are others like him. People who have lost faith. People who have no hope in trying to right their wrongs in the eyes of the Church. Because Jared can never go back. Nothing will ever be enough to atone for his misgivings. Jensen gave his life to the Sea Org and look where it got him — some prison camp on the edge of Gold Base.

The thought of it makes Jared sick to his stomach. He puts down his shovel and clutches at his guts, roiling with pain and urgency. Every second that ticks by in this godforsaken place seems an eternity. Every minute is one minute that should be spent getting to Jensen, rescuing him from that place and starting anew.

“Padalecki, get back to work! We’re not paying you to do fuck-all.”

_Like 15 cents an hour is real pay anyway._ “I think I’m gonna be sick,” he says, clutching at his stomach and doubling over.

The on-duty Ethics Officer sighs. “Jesus, alright then, you’re excused. Report back here when you’re done retching.”

Jared is woozy as he stumbles across the yard, but eventually makes it to his bunk. He collapses on it, head spinning and queasy. Everything crashes in on him at once, it seems, and his heart thumps violently in his chest, sweat beading on his brow. Desperate, he fumbles in his rucksack for the burner phone and dials Jensen’s number.

_Briing-briing. Briing-briing_.

It rings hollow, just the same as it had the last time and Jared’s heart sinks when he hears the dreaded _click_ of the voicemail message.

“ _This is Jensen Ackles. Leave a message._ ”

At the beep, Jared begins his second soliloquy that week.

“All of this is bullshit,” he says, calm and measured, like he’s finally seeing the forest through the trees. “What I’m doing… what _we’re_ doing… it isn’t helping people. It isn’t helping _anyone_. And I’m… I’m thinking of getting out.”

He pauses for a moment, hardly believing the words coming out of his mouth. The blasphemy. The betrayal. The _truth_.

“Jensen, I know where you are. I know where you are and I know what it’s like. It’s not okay. I saw you on the news and you’re not okay.”

His hand shakes as he hangs up the phone. With the taste of bile in his throat, he collapses in on himself, falling asleep almost instantly and forgetting to dream.

~~~

It’s just past midnight and Jared’s in a blackout, a deep sleep that can only be disrupted by a violent shaking of his bunk.

“ _Up! Get UP!_ ”

He blinks awake and startles when a rough hand yanks his hair, pulling his neck at an angle that has him seeing stars. He sits up, dazed.

“You’re coming with us, Padalecki.”

In the darkness, his eyes adjust enough to notice two Ethics Officers standing by his bed. He’s too bone-weary to protest, so he stumbles his way down the ladder and follows the officers out of the bunkhouse, across the lawn. Everything is surreal. He’s still half-asleep when they lead him into one of the interrogation rooms in the East Hall.

Warden Kelly Dixon is sitting there, waiting for him with a maniacal grin on her face.

“Sit down,” she says, turning on the e-Meter with a _zing_. “And pick up the cans.”

Jared does what he’s told, grasping the metal in his hands and leaning back in the chair. His eyes drift shut unwillingly, as if the spell of sleep has finally taken hold and his body is trying to make up for the years of not getting enough of it. He forces them open, blinking profusely so as not to land himself in more trouble.

“This is a Security Check,” says Dixon, with a sneer. “If you lie, you will fail. Understand?”

“Yes,” says Jared, drowsy. He feels like he’s wading through knee-deep muck.

The warden leans forward and skips protocol, immediately launching into her line of questioning. “What were you doing out of bed last night?”

“I wasn’t out of bed.”

“Don’t _lie_ ,” snaps Dixon, slamming her hand on the desk and making Jared jump. “You never used to lie, Jared. It says right here in your file.”

Jared’s cheeks go hot. Turns out Jensen’s generous note-taking has kept him in good standing, all these months.

“Why were you out on the grounds last night with Vera Lee?”

Jared’s stomach flips. So someone _had_ seen them. Watched the two of them scuttle like cockroaches under the floodlights. He’s trapped. “I, um, I don’t —“

“How many times do we have to tell you worthless ingrates that there is to be _no fraternizing_ with other RPFers?”

Jared blinks. _Fraternizing?_

Dixon huffs a mirthless laugh, her cigarette stained teeth clacking together. “Vera denies it too. Says you two were just out for a _midnight stroll_. Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Jared shrugs, trying to look innocent. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Dixon smirks. “I know you two were trying to find somewhere to — to _fornicate_.”

The knot in Jared’s stomach eases. They think — they think he’s just looking for a hookup. They don’t know about the breaking and entering, or the ill-will he harbours.

He’s going to _win_.

“Okay, I admit it,” he says, shrugging. “I just wanted to find a private spot to _fornicate_.” He raises his eyebrows in defiance. “ _You_ know how it is…”

He’s pushing his luck, but it’s not his fault that Dixon gets under his skin like this.

The warden narrows her eyes, the satisfied smirk wiped clean off her face. “That’s _enough_ , Padalecki.” She clicks the e-Meter off and scribbles furiously in his file. “I’m sending you down to the basement for the rest of the night.”

“Good, I need some alone time.”

Dixon points a fat finger at him. “Make that _two_ nights. Want to keep going?”

Jared grits his teeth, stares her dead in the eye, but keeps quiet. He’ll be of no use to Jensen down in the basement.

“Come with me, Junior Officer.” Dixon’s lip forms a thin line and curls into a sneer. “We’ll see how lippy you are after a couple nights downstairs.”

~~~

Sixteen hours of solitary confinement makes you stir-crazy.

~~~

A flicker. A creak.

_Is it? Is there someone coming? Hello?_

No, it’s all in Jared’s head. Again.

This time, he swears he sees a faint glow of light under the door. He presses his fingertips to the wood, scratching his nails at it to see if it budges. It doesn’t. It never does.

They call it SDT — Sensory Deprivation Therapy. Throw you into a supply closet, pitch black and lonely, stripped of any implements, any edges or shelves or jagged things to keep you occupied.

And it’s _cold_. He didn’t realize how cold it would be, under the ground, under the administration offices, no blankets or pillows to keep him warm. He’s been shivering for six hours (or is it sixteen?) and his skin’s clammy with a perpetual dampness that seems to soak into his bones.

Every thud, every rustle, every scrape is like a pinprick gunshot in his ears. And that’s before the screaming begins.

“ _YOU CAN’T KEEP ME IN HERE!!!!!! YOU CAN’T!!!!!!”_

From Jared’s estimations, there are two other miserable souls in the basement with him, locked in other rooms with other convictions. Vera’s likely one of them. And the newest girl — might be Yolann or Wendy by the sound of it — is a _screamer_. She’s been yelling and hollering ever since she got here.

At least Jared can somewhat cope. He’s not sure for how much longer, though. He puts his fingers in his ears to soften the screeches that curdle his blood.

In the dark, his mind wanders to bad places — the sunken look in his mother’s eyes the days leading up to her death, the cutting violence of his step-father’s voice, Jensen’s silhouette hovering on that seventh-floor ledge… He replays that one the most. His stomach drops when his spiralling brain tricks him into believing that Jensen had actually stepped off, that the whip of a crosswind had pushed him over the edge. Jared squeezes his eyes shut and hugs his chest, shivering.

The cold air of death is in his lungs.

~~~

Twenty-eight hours. Thirty-two. Forty-five.

During his mindless second-counting, one thing becomes abundantly clear — he’s got to find Jensen, got to break him out from whatever hellhole he’s trapped in, got to feel him in his arms and taste him on his lips. Jared’s sure he’ll die without his touch.

“I’m coming for you, Jensen,” he whispers in the dark. It echoes off the walls and ricochets in his eardrums, resonating and reverberating like a promise.

A few more hours and he’ll be free again. And exceedingly careful not to step out of line.

Not yet. Not until he can smudge the line so hard he’ll never find his way back.

~~~


	23. The Runaway

A week out of the basement and Jared hasn’t stepped one toe out of line. The Ethics Officers are as pleased as they can be with his newfound rehabilitation: how he shuts up and does his work, studies up on his Hubbard knowledge, keeps to himself.

Little do they know he’s got other plans. That he’s watching _them_.

While they’ve been letting their guard down, Jared’s been surveilling. He knows that Lieutenant LaFarge takes a cigarette break at exactly ten and two o’ clock each day. He knows when Sergeant Peters ducks into the toolshed to jerk off. And, most importantly, he knows that every day at exactly three minutes after five, Major Renfrew walks from the main office to his parked car, keys in his hand. Knows that all it’ll take is one punch to the chin to take Renfrew down, grab the keys, and hightail it out of this godforsaken place forever.

He can’t wait any longer.

Jared’s getting out of here tonight. Come hell or high-water.

~~~

At a quarter to five, Jared makes his move. He’s got one chance to do this before the guards lock him up for good. He’s got to make it count. It’s the tail-end of a beautiful afternoon, sunny and clear, and instead of heading to mess hall for dinner, he takes a detour around the edge of the main office. Hides there… watching and waiting.

There’s a burning feeling in his pocket. He reaches in and unearths his phone, hits “1” on the speed dial, and patches himself through to Jensen Ackles. The last three calls have gone unanswered. This is his last attempt.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

“C’mon, _pick up_ ,” Jared mutters through his teeth. He holds his breath as the rings drone on, endless. Time is ticking and his plan doesn’t have much wiggle room.

_Ring. Ring. CLICK._

Jared’s heart sinks as the voicemail plays.

“ _This is Jensen Ackles. Leave a message._ ”

_BEEP._

“I’m coming to get you,” says Jared, in a rush of emotion. His eyes well up and he realizes, despite his conviction, he’s _afraid_. Afraid for their safety. Afraid of failing. “Watch for me at sundown.” He pauses, breathing gently into the receiver. He squints his eyes shut, trying not to let anything leak from them. He hums, clear and surefire, “I love you.”

He pockets the phone and inhales. It’s far from ideal, this plan. He isn’t even sure Jensen will get the message. But he has to try. He has to fight. This thing he calls Scientology has gone from benevolent to hellish in a matter of months and he doesn’t recognize it anymore.

Something’s changed. _He’s_ changed.

Love does that to some people.

With resolve in his heart and courage in his bones, Jared peers around the corner of the Front Office so he can keep an eye on the main door. He’s got about five minutes until Renfrew leaves for the day, at 5pm sharp. In the meantime, he scans the parking lot for his car and realizes… it’s missing.

Jared’s heart starts to pound.

_Did Renfrew not come in today? Had he left early?_

Waves of panic and reckless thoughts spiral through his brain. If Jensen gets his message, he’ll be waiting for Jared. _Relying_ on him. And if he doesn’t make it…

Jared’s heart nearly stops when he spots Major Renfrew leaving the building, right on schedule. Because tucked under Renfrew’s right arm is a helmet — a _motorcycle_ helmet.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jared curses. He hasn’t planned for this. And he doesn’t know the first thing about motorcycles, but it’s now or never.

He leaves the security of his corner surveillance spot, tiptoeing between parked cars and watching Renfrew stride unsuspectingly to his bike. When he places the helmet on the seat and starts fiddling with the saddle bags, Jared makes his move. He pounces on him from behind and throws an arm around his neck. He pulls Renfrew tight to his body and falls backwards against the next car. He’s got him in a sleeper hold, Jared’s arm exerting just the right amount of pressure on Renfrew’s carotid artery to cause a blackout.

He can feel Renfrew slipping away, feels the drowsy spell take hold as his limbs cease flailing and his speech becomes slurred. A moment, later, Renfrew is passed out soundly on the pavement. Jared tucks him up against the tire of the neighbouring car and takes a deep breath. He knows he has only seconds to make his escape, before Renfrew wakes up and figures out what the hell he’s doing on the pavement. Until the full force of the Church of Scientology will be on his trail. He’s got to _move_.

After shoving the helmet over his head, Jared swings his leg over the seat and sticks the stolen key into the ignition. The only experience with motorcycles he’s had is from _Easy Rider_ , but he doesn’t have time to second guess so he kicks down on the start pedal.

_VROOM._

The engine roars to life. He looks to his left. Renfrew’s eyelids are fluttering. He’s going to regain consciousness any second. Jared gently squeezes the handle bars and he’s off to the races, jutting forward with a deafening roar, nearly losing his balance as he struggles to straighten the wonky steering. It takes a minute to get used to, but soon Jared is blazing through the front gates and off the Ranch.

His heart beats furiously (he swears he can hear it over the roar of the motorbike) as he tears down the R3 towards Sycamore Springs. The wind rips at him (he’s not wearing protective gear) and he winces whenever a stray rock or an unsuspecting fly pelts his skin, carving little shrapnel cuts and bruises. At the risk of toppling the bike over, he can’t help but chance a glance backwards every minute or so. He’s well aware that the Church will be on him any minute and that Renfrew will be awake now, with faint memories of a shaggy-haired kid tackling him unawares. At the moment, they’re checking the tapes, rewinding surveillance footage to identify the escapee.

There’s no doubt they’ll come for him. It’s just a matter of time.

Jared sticks to the main highway for a few minutes and, at first opportunity, turns up a more rural junction. It’s dangerous — there are potholes and wild bends and the sun is beginning to dip low on the horizon, creating long shadows that hide cracks in the pavement. But the one thing Jared has going for him is that the Church doesn’t know where he’s headed. They don’t know how determined he is to get to Jensen.

Jared counts his lucky stars that, in a world of reactive minds, the Church has always underestimated the reactive heart.


	24. The Hole

One hour and fifty minutes later, Jared rolls up at Gold Base, just south of Borrego Springs. The sun has finished setting and, as he inches his way down the fence-lined dirt road, his skin begins to itch, paranoia striking him deep. By now, the Church will know Jared is missing, they will know he stole Renfrew’s bike, and they will have already called ahead to other nearby Scientology Centres, warning them to keep an eye out for fugitives with long-hair and longer limbs.

Still, he creeps along the dirt road as quietly as he can, cuts the bike’s motor halfway up the lane, and throws it in neutral. He quickly gets sweaty and shaky from pushing the heavy machine, the grey glow of dusk settling upon the California valley like a blanket. The sun is gone now. Jensen will be expecting him.

That is, if he gets the message.

Jared walks and walks, scuffling his shoes, back aching from leaning over the bike’s handlebars, until he finally reaches his destination: the heart of Gold Base and the double-hangar warehouses they call The Hole. It’s completely fenced off, with barbed wire and huge metal spikes facing inwards, designed to keep people _in_ , not out. He stays in the shadows, turns the bike around so it’s facing back in the direction he came. Leans it on its kickstand and hovers on the seat. Keeps the helmet on, ready for a quick getaway.

He looks across the lane to the edge of the compound. The chain link fence is sharp and jagged like razor wire. Jared shivers. This place is like a prison, cold and detached, designed to keep you hopeless, keep you compliant. Jared grits his teeth and waits. It’s well past sundown now. He’s antsy, itching to get out of this place, but he bides his time, waiting and watching for nearly an hour until…

Jared’s ears prickle. The oppressive silence of Gold Base is interrupted by a scuffle inside the hangar. There’s a chorus of yells, followed by a series of thuds and thumps. Jared’s heart races. He touches the key to the ignition, ready to kickstart this thing and burn rubber.

Suddenly, the back door of the compound swings open and the a tough-looking guard stumbles clumsily backwards, losing his balance and hitting the ground like he’s just been kicked in the chest. Jared’s eyes snap to the open door and, like a prayer answered, Jensen Ackles appears in its outline, panting and primed for a fight. He’s just knocked the guard on his ass.

“ _JENSEN!_ ” Jared screams through the dark and kicks the motorcycle into gear with an echoing _ROAR_ , its headlight casting a beacon across the prison yard.

Jensen can’t see Jared, not yet, but he turns towards the beam of light and runs like hell. There are other prisoners spilling out of the compound now, scuttling around the grounds like they don’t know what to do with themselves. Jensen, however, is running at full tilt towards Jared’s voice.

“ _OVER HERE! OVER HERE!_ ”

Jared leaves the bike idling and hops off, abandoning it in favour of rushing forward and clinging to the cool metal of the chain link fence, rattling it like a desperate caged animal — only he’s the one who’s free. Jensen sees him now, he’s close enough, and when he reaches the fence at the edge of the grounds, he leaps up and claws at it, scrambling up its jagged links like his life depends on it. In a way, it does.

“ _Come on, come on!_ ” pleads Jared, watching Jensen scale the fence with bated breath. This is it. This is their only chance.

And the Church knows it. Because once Jensen hits the top of the fence, the massive metal spikes prove impossible to penetrate. Jared watches, helpless, as Jensen does his best to pull himself up, hands slicing open on their razored edges. There’s too many of them to scale on his own.

Jared watches with horror as Jensen loses his grip and falls back to the ground inside the compound, hitting the earth with a back-breaking _thud_ , howling in pain and clutching at his ankle. Even in the shadows, Jared can see that it’s broken.

“ _Jensen_ ,” he wails, clutching at the fence, shaking it and willing himself inside.

Jensen looks up amidst the chaos in the yard and, with all the strength he has left, crawls forward, wincing and shivering. He clutches at the fence where Jared kneels, interlocking their fingers through chain link.

“You came for me,” he says, a tremble on his lips.

“I’m not leaving without you.” Jared reaches a finger through the fence and runs it along the scruff on Jensen’s cheek. “Jensen, I need you to climb over.”

Jensen winces, his broken ankle throbbing with agony even without putting weight on it. There is genuine fear in his eyes. “I don’t know if I can…”

“ _Please_ , Jensen,” he urges, voice cracking with emotion and urgency. “I’m not gonna lose you.” He glances over Jensen’s shoulder and sees the knocked-down guard trudging across the yard towards them. His heart sinks. He gives Jensen’s hands an urgent squeeze. “Come on, you have to try. You _have_ to. One more time.”

Jensen’s got resolve in his eye. With great effort, he pushes himself up off the ground, wincing in pain as he puts the slightest amount of weight on his ankle. Jared watches him in a panic, knowing he can’t take a running start this time, that he’s in so much pain he’s close to blacking out, that he’s gaunt and thin and has the strength of a man who hasn’t been fed in a week.

The security guard is gaining ground, stomping closer and clutching his cracked ribs. There’s no way he’s going to let that kick to the chest go unavenged.

“Come on, _quick_ ,” says Jared, heart racing. “I need you.”

Jensen wails in agony as he clutches the fence and takes his first steps up, sweat pouring down his face from the excruciating task of climbing chain link with a broken ankle. He’s doing it, though. He’s doing it for Jared.

Jared’s heart is in his throat as Jensen takes two more steps up, because the guard is too close, too fast to allow him to escape like this. Because now the guard’s got a firm hold on Jensen’s broken foot, tugging at him as Jensen howls in pain and hangs on for dear life.

It’s over. It’s all over. They’re doomed.

_No. Fucking. Chance._

In a last ditch effort, Jared throws off his motorcycle helmet and gets a running start before jumping up the fence himself, climbing it deftly. He gets caught up at the top, his clothing and skin snagging on the barbed wire cage, but he’s through, perched on the top of the fence, splayed out as far as he can on the metal spikes, which dig into his chest like sword edges.

“Grab my hand!” yells Jared, reaching down as far as he can manage. But it’s still not enough. Jensen isn’t high enough and the security guard’s got him on lock down, pulling at his broken foot to prevent him from ascending further.

Jensen looks up, lines of pain and impending doom etched on his face. The moonlight lights up his pale green eyes, pleading and searching for some miracle, some intervention, some act of God to grant him salvation. His eyes are resigned as he gazes upon his saving grace. Utters a final, “ _Jared_ …”

“ _NO_ ,” Jared urges as he watches Jensen’s eyes flutter closed, watches his fingers start to slip from the fence, giving himself over to his fate as he’s pulled _down, down, down_ , until…

_WHUMP._

The security guard yelps in pain and collapses to the ground when one of the other inmates drives a hard elbow into his cracked ribs, knocking the wind out of him.

“Go, Jensen, go!” shouts Lieutenant-Commander Faulkner, as she stands below Jensen and helps boost him up the fence, pushing until he reaches the metal spikes again.

Jared’s belly flutters. This is it. “ _Grab my hand!_ ”

Jensen, nearly blacked out from his suffering, reaches up and grabs hold of Jared who, with the help of their saviour, pulls him up over the spikes, tearing and scraping at his flesh, slicing Jensen’s chest open and soaking his shirt blood-red.

But Jared has him now. He’s never letting go.

They struggle through the barbed wire and Jared grimaces with pain as he does his best to lower Jensen as far as possible before letting him drop to the ground. He lies there in a motionless heap, dead quiet.

Jared jumps down next to him, squeezes his shoulders to rouse him. “Jensen, we gotta go. Come on, I’ll carry you.”

Using all of his remaining strength, Jared digs his hands under Jensen’s back, scooping him up to a sitting position on the hard ground. Behind them, through the fence, the security guard and LCDR Faulkner are in a scuffle, but Jared can’t focus on that now. He bends with his knees and lifts a dead-weight Jensen onto his feet. After an immense effort, he’s manages to get him propped up against Jared’s side, favouring his broken ankle. Jensen’s head lolls against Jared’s neck as he fights to retain consciousness.

Jared hobbles them over to the bike, helps Jensen swing his injured leg over the seat and balance himself amidst the rattle and roar of the engine. Jared gets on, at last, the hell with the helmet he’s tossed aside, and reaches back to hug Jensen’s arms around his waist. Lets Jensen collapse against his back, drowsy, exhausted, and losing blood, his head tucked against Jared’s shoulder.

“Hold on tight,” he hums, gently. He revs the engine. “Hold on to me.”

There’s a faint little squeeze around his belly, of Jensen tightening his arms as best he can, and Jared’s heart explodes with relief as he kicks the bike forward, throttling back down the dirt road.

There are alarm bells ringing at Gold Base.

Pedal to the metal.

~~~

The southern California air is cool as it whips at Jared’s arms and face. It’s pitch dark and he’s burning down State Route 78 at top speed, no street lights, no other cars. Past Scissors Crossing and Los Terrenitos. It’s like a ghost highway and it makes Jared’s skin crawl.

_There’s someone coming. I know it._

He can feel Jensen tucked up behind him, hanging on for dear life. And every time Jared feels his arms slipping, he hits the brakes to make sure his near-conscious companion doesn’t fall off the bike at breakneck speed. Jared’s gotten this far, he’ll be damned if he loses Jensen to roadkill.

They’re burning up a trail south, towards Mexico, the wind whipping at their ears and stinging their skin. It’s nearing midnight now and impossible to see all the potholes and bumps in the pavement. The single headlight on the bike is the only one lighting up the solitary stretch, the deserted Japatul Valley Road towards Tijuana.

Until the light changes.

Careful not to throw them off balance, Jared turns his head and peers behind them. In the distance, a set of headlights is flying up the road, burning rubber, gaining fast.

_Them._

“Hang on,” says Jared, brushing against Jensen’s cheek. He feels the faintest of squeezes around his belly in response. Jensen desperately needs a doctor, but for the moment he’s still alive and clinging to Jared like they’ve clung to each other for months.

Jared pushes the petal down, launching the bike forward. He’s taking his chance on the rural road, praying for smooth pavement. He’s well aware they don’t have helmets or protective gear and, with Jensen already perched precariously on the back of the bike, any sudden movement could topple them over. He’s accelerated to breakneck speed, but he can still feel the car behind gaining on them. There’s a heavy pit in his stomach. He chances a glance back.

_No, no, no…_

Jared’s heart races, blood pounding in his ears so loud it almost drowns out the bike. The vehicle in pursuit has gained so much ground on them, as if they had never gotten a head start at all. He turns and stares dead ahead, into the night.

Everything slows down — his vision, his pulse, his brain activity. He’s so attuned to keeping them alive that he develops a sort of hyper focus — he can almost anticipate the cracks and bumps before they hit, steering an inch this way and a hair that way to avoid near-certain catastrophe.

The car is nearly upon them now. Jared can hear the overdrive of its engine. If he squints he can see two faint headlights approaching in the distance — another car, perhaps one full of innocent passers-by. The thought of it gives him a shred of hope, until the pursuit car launches forward and pulls right up alongside the motorbike.

Jared glances over, defiant. The windows are tinted black, but he knows it’s them. Knows it’s the Church, armed with expensive cars and the power to suck you back in — back into the cult, into the inner circle, into submission. Jared clenches his jaw.

_Not us. Not today._

He presses on the gas, shooting forward and hitting a bump that nearly sends them airborne. He’s ahead for a minute, but then the car is back, racing alongside them. It inches dangerously close, forcing them to the side, forcing them off the road.

_They’re going to kill us_ , Jared realizes as he fights the urge to spin out onto the dirt and roadside cacti. All he hears is Jensen’s voice in his head:

_Keep going, keep going._

The car is closing in now and Jensen’s head lolls lifelessly against his shoulder. With horror, Jared feels Jensen’s hands slip from his waist and, in a _Hail Mary_ attempt to keep the bike upright, Jared lets go of the handlebars and grabs at Jensen’s hands, holding them. Holding _him_.

They fall together, in slow-motion and catharsis. The last thing Jared sees before he hits the pavement is two blinding beams in front of him, his last beacon of hope as he burns into the light.


	25. The Broken Bones

Two surgeries for a fractured collarbone, three malleoli ankle bones broken (with four pins inserted to correct it), five days unconscious with a severe concussion, and six spots of third degree road rash.

Not too bad, all things considering.

Jared sits in the stiff bedside chair, eyes drifting open and closed as he keeps watch over Jensen, who’s lying motionless in a bed at _Hospital Ángeles Tijuana_. This bedside chair has been Jared’s home for the past two days, ever since he was given permission to leave his own bed after a painful resetting of his broken arm bone and treatment for road rash. He’s on too many painkillers to count, but the dull ache in his ailing body persists. Time and time again, the nurses insist he returns to his own bed and get some proper rest, but Jared politely refuses, wishing to remain at Jensen’s side — to watch over him and make sure he sees a familiar face when he wakes up.

Five days in a coma and Jared’s still waiting.

On the sixth day, a nurse, the older one with thick hips and pretty eyes, enters the room for her morning administration.

“Señor Jared, tus pastillas.”

She hands Jared a little paper cup with a handful of colourful pills inside. He holds it to his lips and tips it back, swallowing them all in one go. The nurse smiles and hands him one of those cone-paper cups of water. Tijuana is only twenty miles south of San Diego, but the water tastes so different.

He hands the empty cup back to the nurse, completing their twice daily transaction. “Thank you.”

She nods and watches thoughtfully as Jared turns back to Jensen, who’s chest rises and falls as he breathes through a tube. She places a warm hand on Jared’s shoulder. “�Él estará bien.”

_He’ll be alright._

Tears burn at Jared’s eyes. He nods and relishes the warmth of her hand. It pats him twice and then slips from his shoulder.

Later, Jared falls asleep all scrunched up in his seat, Spanish in his subconscious.

_Él estará bien._

~~~

It’s 3am and Jared stirs when something tells him it’s time to wake up. He blinks the exhaustion from his eyes and checks that the little light on Jensen’s heart monitor is still blinking, when he hears it… a little _sigh_ of air.

_Jensen_.

Jared’s eyes dart over to the hospital bed. The plastic breathing tube is gone, the nurses having removed it while Jared slept, and Jensen’s eyes are fluttering gently. Jared sits up and leans forward. “Jensen?”

There’s a pause of silence and then a sweet little _hmm_ of recognition. Jared’s heart soars — it’s been five days since he’s heard anything besides induced-breathing from him and it’s music to his ears.

Jared leans forward and places a careful hand on Jensen’s arm, finding a little patch of skin that isn’t bandaged and burned. “Can you hear me?”

Jensen shifts his head, grimacing at the effort.

“Don’t move,” says Jared, smiling as tears of relief flood his eyes. “It’s okay, just relax.”

Jensen flitters his eyes open and squints into the darkness. He’s woozy, pumped full of painkillers, but he smiles softly when their eyes meet.

“ _Jared,”_ he whispers, through a too-dry throat. A grin twitches at the corners of his mouth. He winces as he, slowly but surely, turns his hand palm up on the bed and wriggles his fingers.

Jared finds them, runs his fingertips over Jensen’s hands, over the creases and scrapes and life-lines nearly cut short, tickling at the soft squishy part of his palm and pressing gently at each fingerprint.

Jensen sighs dreamily. He closes his eyes and melts into the bed. The power of narcotics and nocturnal necessity overtakes him. He falls asleep instantly, a smile on his face.

Hand in hand, heart to heart.

~~~

Two weeks later, they’re free — given clearance to leave the ICU, armed with an arsenal of pain medication.

“He has a strong heart,” remarks one of Jared’s favourite nurses in broken English as she helps lower Jensen into a wheelchair. She pats Jensen gently on the hair.

Jared smiles, watching a sheepish blush creep across Jensen’s cheeks. “Yes, he does.”

The nurse smiles and it’s so genuine, so kind-hearted, that Jared’s lip trembles and his eyes water. He launches forward and gives her a one-armed hug, trembling with trauma and exhaustion as she squeezes him back.

“Thank you,” he whispers, brokenly. “Thank you for everything.” He pulls away and wipes his eyes on his shirt-sleeve, one of the garments the nurses gathered from the lost and found to help outfit them. He nods his head, a final grateful goodbye before returning to Jensen’s side.

“You need anything?” he says, squatting down next to the wheelchair Jensen’s required to leave the hospital in.

Jensen rolls his eyes, squirms as best he can in a neck brace and foot cast. “Yeah, I need to get out of this chair.”

“Hospital policy,” Jared grins, standing up to position himself behind the wheelchair. He grabs the handles and leans down to mutter in Jensen’s ear. “I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to let me take care of you for a little while longer…”

Jensen turns his cheek slightly, so he can nudge his overgrown scruff against Jared’s cheek.

They head down the long hallway, Jared wheeling Jensen past hospital beds and smiley nurses and TVs that play dramatic _telenovelas_ , until they reach the front exit. The sliding doors open and a wave of warm, Mexican air hits them like sunshine.

There’s a bus out front with a handwritten sign that reads, _Aeropuerto Internacionale de Tijuana_.

“Where are we going?” asks Jensen, raising an eyebrow.

Jared grins. “Somewhere else.”

He swears he can hear Jensen’s smile and the proud whisper of _“mutineer”_ on his lips.


	26. Epilogue

_September, 1994.  
Kaua’i, Hawaii._

Jensen’s ankle cast is gone, their burns are healed, and there’s not a Scientology pamphlet in sight. Instead, there’s sand between their toes and Hawaiian sun in their eyes.

They’re free. They’re _home_.

When they first arrive on the coast of Kaua’i, they use what little money they have saved up to rent a modest cabana from a Polynesian chicken farmer named Fetu. A Sea Org salary is nowhere near enough to sustain them for long, but they make up the difference by doing farm chores that the aging Fetu can’t quite manage anymore.

Some of the islanders haven’t taken as kindly to the strange pair — one older, one younger, whose touches linger too long for some peoples’ liking; two men who talk funny and arrived with seared flesh and broken bones. But Jared and Jensen manage to carve out a little space for themselves on the edge of Kaua’i. The beach is only a stone’s throw from the chicken farm, a quick jaunt down a stone path leads them straight to sandy heaven.

It’s their afternoon routine, watching the waves under the sun. Jensen wears sunglasses and a straw hat, propped up against a mini-chair and reading a cheesy romance novel he’d found in the closet. Jared basks like a sleepy kitten on the blanket beside him. He vows to learn how to surf, just as soon as his shoulder stops clicking.

When Jared feels a new sunburn prickling at his shins, he rolls onto his stomach and crawls up the sand until the two of them are face to face. He walks his fingertips up Jensen’s chest, ghosting along a brown nipple, tickling at the healed over scar on his collarbone. Watches the corners of Jensen’s mouth curl upward as he feigns interest in his book.

Jared cocks his head and leans in, brushing his lips against Jensen’s sun-kissed shoulder. Fake-audits, “Can you remember a time you felt happy?”

Jensen sets his book on his belly and turns toward Jared, removing his sunglasses and showing off all those beautiful freckles the Hawaiian sun has brought out. He runs a hand through Jared’s hair and cradles his cheek. “My memories begin and end with you.”

He leans down and kisses Jared, taking his soft lips between his own in the most tender, most gentle way. He trembles as though their love simmers under his very skin, at last brimming over and soothing him. _Healing_ him.

Jensen’s tenderness melts Jared, who sinks slowly into the warm sand, dizzy with desire and so unfathomably grateful that they’re here — that they’re _alive_ and together.

After a lifetime, their lips part and Jared turns himself back around. Jensen goes back to his book. And as Jared gazes out at the ocean — its surf-sized waves and seabirds, distant island jetties with tropical palms, and Jensen beside him — he breathes in the clean air and, in a moment of pause, a revelation strikes him, irrevocable and deep —

Everything’s become so _clear_.

The only world worth saving is the one with the two of them in it.

**Author's Note:**

> find more of my wolfy tales on [tumblr](http://weefaol.tumblr.com/) <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Freewinds Art post](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028880) by [winchestergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestergirl/pseuds/winchestergirl)




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